Something Like Aching
by MinP1072
Summary: "The dreams had come every night since she'd first met Reddington, beaming at her like she was the answer to every question he'd ever ask; like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Since his hand on her back had sent an entirely inappropriate thrill through her; since watching him cuffed and subdued had made her flush with what could only be sheer lust. Every. Night."
1. The Freelancer

**A/N: **Written in response to an anon Tumblr request for something based on "…that moment in the Floriana Campo ep where Red is sitting at the table in the hotel room and Liz walks up to him and they stare at each other in exasperation and smug defiance and that tension that has been there between them since DAY ONE?" Here's what I came up with…

* * *

_He looked up at her, everything about him smiling except his mouth, parted slightly in exertion. She rose over him, certain of nothing at all. Nothing but the simple fact that if she didn't have him inside her _right now, _the heat that shimmered between them would consume them both. They were creatures of want and need, lost in each other._

_He said her name in a broken voice, then shouted as her hand wrapped around his hot length. His hands were bruisingly tight on her hips as she slid over him; her cry of completion almost a scream…_

It was loud enough, in fact, to startle her awake, sweat soaked and gasping, halfway to orgasm with her own hand tangled in her shorts. In despair and shame, she kept her eyes screwed shut as she finished — she couldn't possible get through the day with such a painful, yearning ache haunting her.

But that didn't mean she could face it honestly, either.

She scrubbed herself nearly raw in the shower, water as hot as she could stand. Unfortunately, she couldn't scrub her mind clean too. The dreams had come every night since she'd first met Reddington, beaming at her like she was the answer to every question he'd ever ask; like she was the most beautiful thing he'd ever seen. Since his hand on her back had sent an entirely inappropriate thrill through her; since watching him cuffed and subdued had made her flush with what could only be sheer lust.

_Every. Night._

And so, shame was also her constant companion — dreaming of another man, especially _that_ man, while her own beloved husband lay comatose in the hospital, barely breathing. Then, she'd remember the box in her dining room, and that her husband wasn't her husband at all, but a complete stranger. Or was he? Was he both her husband _and_ a stranger?

How could her life have become such a complete and utter shambles in such a short time?

Then her phone rang, and she was moving again, distracted _(thank god)_ by a new case. And, of course, not distracted at all, because here he was again. Smiling at her. Telling stories and swanning around with absolutely no concept of personal space. And somehow, in front of _everyone,_ inviting her…to dinner?

She felt oddly as if she had entered another dimension; as if the world around her wasn't quite real. She maintained her grip only by keeping herself strictly brusque and business-like, as abrasive as possible without alienating him.

_If anyone asks, you're my girlfriend from Ann Arbor,_ he'd said cheerfully, as if that was a completely rational thing to say. She took quick refuge in denial, only to have him call her daughter.

Which was so, so very much worse.

She couldn't do this; she had to do it. He chatted at her amiably, smiling just like he had in her dream — with his entire body, while his mouth stayed serious. He looked at her like a starving man; like she was the first human contact he'd had in decades.

He looked at her like he loved her.

He asked her to profile him, to give him insight into her mind. Afraid, terribly afraid of giving something away, she did. She was unable to resist taunting him with his own clear need for her, whatever it might mean. He merely smiled at her, sleek and even, and ordered a bottle of wine.

The dream she had that night was so intense that she woke still tired, panting and satisfied and astonished.

And so, so ashamed of herself.

She found it difficult to meet his eye, the next day, but forced herself to — _show no weakness._ And somehow, they were together again, and _oh my,_ didn't he fill out a tux? She hated herself even as she snuck glances at him. She felt beautiful and sophisticated being swept into a gala on his arm.

Then, at the last, furious at being fooled _yet again,_ facing him down in a dim hotel room, she suddenly thought perhaps, just perhaps, she wasn't the only one. Because when their eyes met, hers were angry and _okay,_ maybe a little frightened. But his _burned,_ flashing green, as if he would swallow her whole. Her entire body burst to life, yearning, as he looked up at her, just as he had in the heat of a dream.

A single moment; a hundred years.

* * *

She looked down at him, the light making shadows play over her face; _god, she was beautiful,_ and this wasn't what he'd expected. It hit him anew each time he saw her. He'd seen plenty of pictures of her, over the years; had seen her in life at her at her graduation, her farcical wedding. And certainly it had occurred to him that she had grown up into a lovely woman, but…

But.

But _nothing_ could have prepared him for the reality of her. From the first moment he saw her again, striding toward him across the barren concrete floor, clad in her battle armor of stark business suit and heels, he was lost.

At the same time, he admired her strength, bravery, curiosity, her quick and nimble mind. He was thrilled to watch her work with such a fierce determination to prove herself. Even as she fought against him — _stubborn, so stubborn_ — she was beautiful. He was terribly afraid that he had made a mistake starting them on this course; he couldn't stop thinking about her.

He dreamt of her. Nebulous, sweaty dreams, full of tangled limbs and moans of pleasure. Dreams in which he made all his most illicit thoughts reality.

After Montreal, the dream was torturous. After Montreal, he knew too well what her legs looked like, long and creamy and muscled. Could trace the curves of her in his mind in meticulous detail — the simple little black dress she'd worn, with its slim lines and square neckline, had concealed everything and nothing all at once.

He accepted the haunting as a natural outlet of a lonely life, and tried not to let his attraction show.

And now, she stood before him, fury making her eyes bright, the tension of her body only making it more enticing. Every line of her stood out clean and clear, all of her nearly pulsing with agitation. Breathing fast from her rush back to the room, flushed pink and pretty. _How far did that attractive blush spread?_ He couldn't help the lust that flashed over his face; he honestly could not control his expression.

He was quite certain she'd seen it. He took a split second to wonder, _what if._ If they had met each other in another life, if she'd…

_Ridiculous._

He hated what he had to do, but he did it anyway. Hated the desolation that swept over her, as he once again, with delicate surgical precision, stripped away another of life's illusions.

A necessary lesson, but a cruel one.

He was surprised when she wanted to meet on the pier. He supposed she had been ordered to debrief him. But when he sat, facing away from her on the opposite side of the bench, she said nothing. She was watching the water, her hair tangled and coming down, still wearing her sparkly dress just as he still wore his tuxedo.

When he glanced over, she looked…defeated. Drained. Exhausted. He ached for her.

"You look tired," he said, his voice harsh in the still air. "Go home, get some sleep." He hesitated, thinking he should leave it at that; should get up and leave before she could bring herself to speak.

"Unless you're avoiding your home," he heard himself say instead.

She turned then, and caught him looking at her with that soft expression that gave away too much.

"Of _course_ I'm avoiding my home," she said, voice caught between tears, anger, bitterness. "It doesn't even feel like home anymore. Every time I walk in the door, all I can see is blood, blood everywhere, _Tom's _blood.

And then I remember that _my entire life is a lie."_

"Oh, Lizzy."

"Don't," she snapped, outraged, leaping to her feet. "Don't talk to me as if you care about me. If you cared about me, you'd have stayed away. You'd have left me in peace; I was _happy, _we were _happy, why?_ And now I can't even _sleep_ without you following me, haunting me, making me–"

She cut herself off abruptly, her hand coming to her mouth as if to stop the words that were tumbling out. He would have paid a great deal of his ill-gotten gains to know what she'd been about to say.

Even furious, he thought, she was beautiful. "I wish things were different," he said softly, meaning it with his whole being. "But I can…I can at least offer you a safe place to sleep, Elizabeth." He stood too, and offered her his arm as he had earlier that evening, hoping she would take it, as she had then. "Come with me, and rest a while."

And to his surprise, she did.

* * *

She couldn't imagine what had come over her. So tired and alone, so sad and angry that she'd nearly revealed the worst of herself. And then he'd offered her solace, and she had just…taken it. Taken his arm and let him tuck her into the back of a shiny black Mercedes, his man Dembe at the wheel and Luli beside him in the passenger seat. They sat in silence — strangely, not an uncomfortable one — while they whisked through the city in the early morning light.

He helped her out of the car on a shady, tree-lined street in front of a discreet hotel awning that spoke of money. Stuck his head back in the window to quietly confer with his people — _Raymond, are you sure you…_ A protest from the woman, quickly silenced. He turned back to Liz with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"Shall we?"

She felt almost like she was in one of her own dreams. Surely nothing that happened in this hazy light, this insubstantial state, could be real. She ignored his cocked elbow this time, and took his hand instead, interlacing her fingers with his. She felt the start of surprise that jolted through him, then he squeezed her hand lightly and led her inside.

All the way up — _of course, _he had the penthouse, and had to swipe his keycard to even push the button — she remained silent. Afraid that if she spoke, she would shatter the misty bubble that surrounded them; afraid that reality would intrude. If she didn't speak, she could stay in this dreamlike _otherwhere,_ and find something to hold on to. To her surprise, he stayed equally silent, leaning comfortably against the back wall with her hand still in his.

The elevator deposited them directly into the sumptuous suite, which appeared at a glance to be significantly larger and lusher than her house. Her heels made little divots in the plush carpet as he led her to one of the bedrooms. When they entered, she knew immediately it was his — it smelled like him, and it shocked her that she recognized it so easily.

"This room is the nicest," he said, stopping by the end of the bed and offering her a wink.

"You don't have to–"

"Don't worry — there isn't an uncomfortable surface in this entire place." He hesitated briefly. "I can get some things of Luli's for you to wear."

Everything in her recoiled at the thought, the image of the lavish kiss he'd shared with Luli — was it only a day ago? — tugging nastily at her mind.

"No," she said quickly, words tumbling. "No, it's okay, I…I'll just…"

The sympathetic understanding on his face almost broke her.

"There are clean undershirts in the top drawer of the dresser," he said quietly. "If you'd prefer."

She nodded, and he reached out and gently tucked a stray tangle of hair behind her ear. She shivered involuntarily at his touch, and he took his hand back — not exactly a snatch, but a quick retreat. She wanted to grasp his hand, to correct the misconception; she didn't know how.

"Sleep well, then," he said, and headed for the door.

All she could think was that she didn't want him to leave.

_She wanted to dream._

"Could–could you unzip me?" Her voice wavered a little, but she gathered herself to meet his surprised eyes with a direct look.

He walked back to her in slow, measured steps. His face was carefully passive, but his eyes were burning again. He put his hands on her shoulders and turned her around. The graze of his fingers against her neck, as he swept her hair over her shoulder, sent another shiver through her. She wasn't sure if she could keep breathing.

He tried not to touch her as he lowered the zipper, slowly and carefully. But _oh,_ as more and more of her was revealed in the deep vee made by the fabric, it became too much of a struggle. The contrast of the inky black fabric against ivory skin was too enticing; he _had to,_ had to touch, just once, and see if it was as velvet as it appeared.

He found himself holding his breath as he let his free hand follow the path the zipper had taken, stopping to rest lightly in the warm, soft hollow of her lower back. _What a terrible mistake,_ was all he could think, because she _was,_ of course, as silky and tempting as he'd thought she might be, and _now_ what was he to do?

His hand on her skin was a revelation, it made her _want,_ just that slight tracing down her spine had her eager for more — _anything _more. When he stilled his palm just above the folds of fabric, her heart skipped. Entirely outside of her own control, a small sound escaped her — a whimpering sound of need.

"_Lizzy,"_ he said, and his voice was hoarse and trembling.

"I–I…" Good god, had she lost the power of speech entirely? Was it so difficult to be honest? She didn't even know what to call him. "I dream of you," she blurted, glad he couldn't see her face. "Every night, you're there, in my dreams."

His mind, which had been scrambling for a reason to keep his hands on her, for even just a moment more, stopped working entirely. Did he dare imagine her dreams akin to his? That she woke, sweaty and unfulfilled, dizzy with a desire so unsuitable she couldn't even think about it in the light of day and stay sane?

"I can hardly look at you, some days," she said, her voice small. "Remembering the things you did inside my head."

He drew a deep, shuddering breath — wasn't that _just fascinating?_ His mind howled at him to remember his plans, to be rational, to think of her safety. But his body burned and shook with reckless need.

Abandoning all pretence of sensibility, he let his hand slide around the slim curve of her waist, under her dress, to rest on her ribcage. Her heart thumped against his thumb like a frightened rabbit; he pulled her close and reveled in her heat.

His hand on her skin was warm and enticing; when he pulled her back, she could feel him already hardening against her.

Her mind scrambled — she had to stop this, stop it _now._ But then, his mouth was on her neck, tasting her ever so gently, and she gave herself up to madness, arching into his touch. Her clear response made his grip tighten, his teeth grazing her throat.

She curved herself back into him; one of her hands came up to wrap around his neck and pull him closer. He growled a little into the column of her throat, and she shuddered in his hands. He suddenly needed to _see_ her, to _know_ that she was with him in this — he lifted his head so he could spin her to face him.

When he freed his mouth, a flutter of panic went through her, but he turned her around, the look of raw hunger on his face reassured her; emboldened her. She took a step back and, keeping her eyes locked on his, pulled the dress from her shoulders and let it drop to the floor.

He had turned her only to ensure her consent, her involvement — and had been instantly relieved by the need in her darkened eyes, the flush on her cheeks, the part in her trembling lips. Then, in a few smooth movements, she stripped off her dress and stood watching him, red lace bright against rich cream.

He thought the bolt of lust would fell him where he stood.

A breath in, and he was still standing; a breath out, and he reached for her. A mere second passed, and she was kissing him, or he was kissing her, or… It was a madness of lips and tongues and teeth, hands grasping and roaming and taking. She yanked impatiently at his shirt, eager for skin — when she met only another layer, she ripped herself free, panting for breath.

He stared at her, eyes turbulent as a stormy sea, his chest heaving as hard as her own. His loose shirtfront and the distortion in his finely tailored slacks were the only other signs of distress — even his bow tie was still straight. It maddened her, made her want to mess him up.

But before she could move, his hands were at her breasts, tugging the filmy lace down to free her to his gaze. A sharp intake of breath, a lick of the lips; then he was feasting, mouth and hands, rough and urgent, and every touch made her hotter and wetter.

She was a _vision, _and he was lost; frantic with need, wild with desire. Framed by red, her breasts presented an irresistible temptation that he didn't even try to resist. Instead, he gorged himself with a complete lack of grace. She tasted as bright and clean as summertime, her skin impossibly soft; she moaned above him as he sucked her nipple to a taut peak, moulding the other with deft fingers.

Frustrated, she wormed her hands between them and ripped at his shirt; she heard the fabric tear in a long _shrusssh_ of sound that just made everything _better._ She pushed up his undershirt, and _finally_ found skin.

Her hands on him threatened to drive him mad. Hot fingers dragging through the curling hair on his chest, making patterns on his side; nails scraping at his back when he used his teeth on her. He couldn't seem to pace himself, to entice, to seduce — he was desperate with a bone-deep yearning that _hurt._ Her mouth found his neck with fierce suction, and an arc of fire went straight to his cock.

He picked her up and swung around to drop her on the bed; stretched over her to take her mouth once more. She seemed as frantic as he; she kicked off her heels and wrapped her long legs around his hips so she could rub against him shamelessly. He managed to get a hand between them and ripped away the barrier of lace with an impatient twist of his fingers.

He slid his hand further down; she cried out as he found the swollen nub of her clit, wet and waiting. He wanted to learn each and every inch of her; not now, _not now,_ he cannot wait. He pushed up, drawing in a deep breath of air while he yanked impatiently at his zipper and pulled himself free. Had just enough control left to rasp at her breathlessly.

"Lizzy, are you…should I–"

When his fingers left her she wanted to scream, but his body was still hot and heavy over hers, and the line of his throat was so tense she could see his heartbeat. The sound of his zipper brought another well of moisture and then he was gasping out words and it took her moment to make sense of them.

"It's okay," she panted back, her own voice hoarse and strange in her ears. "It's okay, I'm safe–" She gave up any last vestige of pride or self respect. "Please, Red, _please,_ come inside me."

With a groan from his very depths, he dropped back into her and covered her mouth with his, demanding. Even as relief flooded her, he was inside her in one long push that made her body bow under his. He clasped her hands in his and slammed them down beside her head; then just let himself go, utterly and completely.

He moved fast and hard, driven by something furious; it was _thrilling._ She took everything he gave and gave it right back, night after fruitless night fuelling her. He was thick and so hard inside her that it bordered on painful; she _loved_ it. She was right at the edge of the bed, only his body keeping her there; the precarious angle meant that with every thrust, he rubbed over her clit. With her hands trapped, she arched into him to get closer, tightening her legs around his ass, delighting in the feel of his muscles flexing, flexing against her calves.

His senses were _saturated_ with Elizabeth, and his mind had enough strength left to take note of things he would want to remember.

The scent of her, sharp and clean as warm citrus.

The hoarse rasps of her voice, spurring him, _faster, harder, __**more.**_

Her hand tangled in his, holding on so tight her knuckles shone white.

The taste of her, sweet and fresh, a tang of mint.

The way she _felt_ — skin like velvet to touch, cunt like a hot silken vise.

The sound she made with his every thrust, somewhere between and cry and a moan and a word.

He thought if only he knew what that word was, he would unlock the mystery of her.

He was a talker.

She knew enough about him to know that words were a tool he was expert with — wielding them with a confident aplomb. Charismatic, confident, clever. But she could never have imagined _this, _this litany of deliciously filthy comments and suggestions. Things he liked, things he wanted, everything he would do to and with her given the time.

It made her _crazy, _tied her in knots; she's never, honestly _never,_ been so aroused. The pressure builds in an agony of pleasure.

Wound as tightly as she was, it didn't take long for her to splinter apart, her release nearly a sob of relief. The feel of her pulsing around him, inner muscles working his cock, pushed him over the brink.

He buried his face in the crook of her neck and _moved,_ shaking the bed with the force of it, making her shake along with it. With a shuddering groan, he came, hard and hot and his vision went black as he emptied himself.

He couldn't remember ever feeling so gloriously good in his entire life.

xxxxxxxxxxxx

She couldn't move — her limbs heavy and mind empty. She felt utterly replete, the weight on her a warm comfort. There was some sort of reason she shouldn't feel so good, but she couldn't seem to bring it to mind. She was on the edge of contented sleep when the weight atop her shifted slightly.

Then, a smart on her ribcage where a remaining button had been pressed, leaving its imprint in her skin.

Then, a gentle mouth on the soft hollow behind her ear, tenderness.

Her name, but not _hers,_ whispered low and deep, _Lizzy._

Oh. There it was, the reason she shouldn't feel good, not at all. Oh no.

_Oh god, oh god what have they– What has _she _done?_

"L-let me up," she managed. "Please."

There was a pause, his breath tickling her neck. "Lizzy," he started, his tone very difficult to read.

"_Please,"_ she repeated, suddenly close to tears. "Just let me up."

He rolled to sit on the edge of the bed beside her. She lay still for a moment longer, trying vainly to collect herself, then pushed herself off the bed and fled into the bathroom without looking at him.

She thought she heard him sigh as she passed by, but couldn't be sure. Locked away in a ridiculous luxurious washroom, she leaned on the counter in front of the sink and took a few deep breaths. Then, steeling herself, she looked up at the mirror.

The first, instant thought was how well-pleasured she looked. The second was horror — at herself, at what she has done, at the entire situation. Her hair was an impossible, tangled mess; her face flushed, her eyes dark; what she could see of her body was rosy and spotted with love bites. Her bra was still twisted around her breasts and she fumbled with the clasp, suddenly desperate to be rid of it.

She found a comb in the sleek display of hotel toiletries and took it into the shower stall along with her handful of bottles. She let the water cook her clean as she soaked her knotted hair with conditioner and then started pulling the comb through, trying to somehow be gentle and fast both.

She let the tears come while she tugged and fiddled, and pretended it was the smaller pain.

He heard the water start shortly after the door slammed; only then did he stand up and stretch reluctantly, visions of a long, lazy day in bed shattered into pieces. He supposed he should have known she would immediately start second-guessing herself, let fear guide her.

It was still a little disappointing.

He looked at himself in the mirror over the low dresser and laughed aloud. What a ridiculous figure he cut, still more than half-dressed — pants still on but undone, cock curled loose and sticky against his flies; his finely tailored shirt ripped open at the bottom, buttons missing and placket torn; undershirt rucked up over his belly, a few long red scratches curving around out of sight; collar and bow tie, however, were incongruously only a little crooked.

He scrubbed his hands over his face; rubbed them roughly over his scalp. In a series of deft, efficient movements, he stripped himself bare, tossing the ruined shirt into the wastebasket in the corner and folding the rest of the tuxedo into a dry cleaning bag.

He pulled clean clothes out of the drawers and nipped into the room Dembe was using to have a quick clean up. Despite Elizabeth's earlier reluctance, he strolled over to Luli's room for a pair of soft yoga pants and a long-sleeved cotton t-shirt; found a pair of subtle-enough grey flip flops provided by the hotel.

When he went back to his own room the shower was off, so he took a chance and knocked lightly on the door.

No response.

He sighed again. "I have fresh clothes for you, Elizabeth — I assumed that you'd rather not make your way home in your evening dress."

Still silence, then the click of the door lock, and the door opened a crack. Steam billowed out below her outstretched hand. He gave her the small pile of garments and the door slammed again.

He still felt extravagantly good, and sat in the easy chair by the window to wait for her, legs stretched out before him.

She thanked her stars for Reddington's self-indulgence in choice of accommodation as she tied her wet hair back quickly with a tie she'd found, made further use of the luxury toiletries, as she slipped her feet into the provided sandals. She wouldn't normally go out without a bra, but the thought of putting the damp red lace back on made her shudder.

She took a final breath, straightened her spine, and stepped back into the bedroom. He was waiting for her, in a clean undershirt and grey cotton pants that he must sleep in. He looked so relaxed and at ease that she wanted to slap him.

"This never happened," she said, her voice harsh in the large, quiet room. "I'm going to leave here now, and it _never happened."_

"But it _did_ happen, Lizzy," he pointed out, cool and matter-of-fact. "I believe you enjoyed yourself."

She felt herself blush furiously. "That's not– This isn't– That is _not_ the point. If _anyone_ found out–"

"So, you _did_ have an acceptable time, then?"

His voice was still infuriatingly calm, but his eyes were shadowed. She dug her toe into the carpet, torn and miserable.

"Of _course_ I did," she muttered finally. He smiled at her, like a beam of sunlight. "But that hardly matters," she went on, digging for anger, anger that would keep her safe. "It was a terrible mistake and we both have to forget it. You're an FBI asset, for god's sake, and I'm your…I don't even _know_ what I am. Except _married."_ And now the nausea is back.

"Not really," he replied mildly.

"What?" she snapped, almost at the end of her tether.

"If someone got married under a false identity, that marriage wouldn't have standing in the eyes of the law."

Tears hover again, and she knows she's done. "Is that supposed to make me feel _better?"_ she cried. "My whole life is in pieces and I've only made it worse. Promise me, Reddington, _promise me,_ this goes nowhere outside this room. _Please."_

She sounded so terribly sad and distraught, the plea so different from her earlier one that he gave in — for now. "If that's really what you want, Elizabeth."

"I–Thank you," she said, her voice small and choked.

And then she was gone, in an herbal-scented whirl, snatching her little evening bag up from the floor and tumbling out of the room in a noisy dash. He looked around the room at the few bits and pieces of her clothing, and thought he could bide his time for a little while. He thought she would come to him again, and then they'd see.

Because he wasn't done with her, with this; not with _any of it._

Not even close.

* * *

**A/N: **The title is part of a line from the poem Quiet Waiter–Blue Forever by Lana Del Ray. There's a tiny bit of dialogue borrowed from the show, which of course, belongs to the writers of The Blacklist.


	2. Wujing

**A/N:** Apparently, this is now a full-fledged fic, that will follow season one episode by episode, with diversions that respond to all the looks, the tension, the things said and unsaid, that scream for more. I don't even know how this happened.

* * *

Another restless night; sleepless, her mind a tangle. She couldn't stay in bed with a stranger, angry and afraid; she couldn't lie beside her husband, wracked with fear and doubt; guilt and shame.

She didn't dare sleep beside him when she knew exactly what she'd be dreaming about. And now, now that she'd experienced the reality…

_God._

She thought of the pleasure on Tom's face when she'd picked him up from the hospital, how he'd reached for her hand; how, later, he had fallen asleep curled around her, like always.

_How could it possibly be a lie?_

She sifted hopelessly through the box again — Pandora's box in truth, she thought, the evils it released more insidious and stifling than she could ever have imagined. What was she supposed to...her eyes fell, then, on the gun, and _finally,_ her brain clicked into gear.

She started moving in a rush, as quickly as she could without making too loud a sound. Morning broke as she worked, as she tucked away the spent bullet and casing that she hoped would bring her the truth.

_If only she knew which truth she was hoping for._

Then it was time to face Reddington again, yet another test of her newfound acting abilities. When she arrived at the address Dembe had texted her, it was…what was a men's hat shop called, anyway? A haberdashery? She wondered why she even knew the word.

With the jingle of the bell on the door, the game began.

"Ah, Lizzy, an opportunity has come our way."

He seemed just as always; he clearly wasn't going to say anything…untoward, and she sighed inwardly in relief. There was comfort in the joust of their back and forth; in the way his face remained friendly, but cool enough; in the interest of a new case. But…Wujing?

"He's a myth," she said, skeptical, annoyed.

She thought he looked vaguely disappointed in her. "That's what they said about Deep Throat," he said, completely deadpan. "And the G-spot."

He might have kept his face even, but his voice dropped, syllables low and rich. It made her insides tighten, and she thought it was monumentally unjust that a _voice_ could be an aphrodisiac. She strove not to react, and thought she probably succeeded, though he smiled his cat-smile. Then he told her what her role would be in this new caper of his, and her heart sank.

She couldn't do it. Even as she described the situation to the team, even as she looked at the bodies left by this notorious villain, she couldn't feel anything but afraid. She had no experience in undercover work, and knew less than nothing about cryptology.

_But._

But Reddington had set this up assuming she could handle it. He'd given her the cover and the situation with a nonchalant confidence that made her want to live up to it. And Ressler's taunting made her want to throw his condescension right back into his smug face.

She tracked Reddington down again, a new determination making her feel strong.

"Okay," she said, standing straight and meeting his eyes. "Say I do this. What's in it for me?"

"Look at you," he answered, with that smile that made his whole face bright. "Camel trading like a Bedouin."

Was he…proud of her? For standing up to him? For not just doing what he wanted? Was it strength that he admired, or the more selfish way of thinking? She wished she understood him better.

"If I'm gonna help you, I want something in return."

He raised an eyebrow at that, and she fought back the flush and stood her ground.

"Such as?"

"The truth," she said, because that _was_ what she wanted most. "Just once. I want to know why you chose me."

"Well then, we need to move quickly," he said briskly. "Things are already in play."

She couldn't help noting that he hadn't actually agreed to talk to her. She intended to ensure that he did.

* * *

He'd anticipated so many things when preparing to enter Elizabeth's life; he'd imagined that he'd thought of everything. A foolish conceit, perhaps, but he honestly did try. But one thing that he hadn't — that he _couldn't _have — was how much he _enjoyed_ her.

In a few short weeks, her entire life had changed, everything she knew become something else, strange and dangerous. And yet, she seemed to take every blow, every challenge, and use what she needed from it to make her stronger. Her thought patterns had already altered, become more insightful and more calculating both.

She stood beside him in the elevator now, descending into goodness-knew-what. He could tell she was nervous, worried, but it didn't show — at least, not to strangers. To him, although the bored mien she'd affected hadn't changed, there was just…something about the way she held herself. He wanted to reassure her, but it was a near certainty that they were being monitored.

He didn't think she'd thank him for it, anyway, her fierce independence her shield against the world.

The anger that slapped at him when Wujing took her hand in both of his, in what he thought an overfamiliar and inappropriate way, caught him completely off-guard. He forced himself to look away, _turn _away so that he wouldn't punch the other man solidly in the face, laughing at himself as he did so.

Then things got moving, and the thrill of it overtook him, as it always did. He took a great deal of pleasure in the silent communication with Elizabeth; they worked together as smoothly as if they'd worked together for years. It soothed him, as well, just the small brushes of his thumb against her spine — and he could see it helped her, too, centering her and allowing her to keep going.

He thoroughly enjoyed throwing a small hissy fit; it relieved his anxiety and put the opposition on edge. Nobody liked it when someone they knew to be dangerous also became unpredictable. Presenting the unexpected always gave him the advantage, and he prided himself in keeping it. She moved through his chaos, swift and neat, doing what she needed to do without drawing even an eye flicker of attention.

Really, everything was going astoundingly smoothly. Until, with a screaming klaxon, it wasn't.

He grasped her arm urgently and hurried her toward the elevator anyway, hoping to avoid any…unpleasantness. Futilely, of course, and as they turned to face Wujing's rage, his mind was rapidly calculating — with no weapons of their own, the odds were not with them.

He watched dispassionately as Wujing mercilessly beat the unfortunate Jin Sun, but he felt Lizzy tense beside him, guilt gnawing at her. She was still so new to this work; she didn't understand the necessary sacrifices.

"We have to do something." A hushed, desperate hiss.

"_Quiet."_ There was nothing to be done; nothing that would soothe her conscience or make the situation any easier.

"We can't just let them do this."

Of course they _could,_ but he knew that she _wouldn't._ Then, it ceased to matter as any choices there might have been disappeared, as Jin Sun's eyes found the drive on the floor, and then met Elizabeth's with sharp realization.

He moved without thinking, without hesitation, with the swift economy of movement that had become second nature. Elizabeth stood frozen at his side; he didn't turn to her, didn't want to see the horror and revulsion he was sure would stain her face.

Even Wujing appeared to be in shock — he had to shout to snap the man out of his muttering trance. And then. Oh, then, it was his own turn to become ice as Wujing spoke.

"You don't kill one of my people." A hot, hasty anger; a weapon leveled. "Now I have to kill one of yours."

Before the sentence was complete, Red was moving, shifting to block Elizabeth from the gun's trajectory. His own fury was cold and sharp, more powerful than heat. It had to be.

He distracts with talk, biting, clear statements of fact. Then, the truest thing, the only thing that mattered.

"If you kill her, you'd better kill me. Or I'm going to kill you."

_And consign the whole world to darkness._

He heard her breath catch, just behind him; felt her hand, hidden from view, come up to press against his back. With it, he felt slightly less wild.

But only slightly.

Alone again, and safe, with Dembe and Luli standing guard, he could draw a full breath at last. Wujing would go to jail, and Elizabeth would go home, safe and sound, if perhaps a little further changed. Angry with him, maybe, but he meant what he'd said. He'd do whatever was necessary, _anything,_ to keep her alive. _Safe._

He thought perhaps he could leave it at that, but of course, she hadn't forgotten their half-made bargain. She leant across him to slam his car door shut, and he breathed her in, savouring her warmth, her bright scent. He felt a surge of need to hold her close, to soften the edges of the long, difficult day in her supple form.

But she was already talking again, words making sharp, demanding shapes in the air.

"You owe me an answer."

She certainly wouldn't be happy with anything he could tell her, so he gave her the smallest answer possible — not a lie, he'd not lie to her, but a tiny truth, one that would mean nothing with the rest of it. She slumped sulkily in her seat and made him smile, a little.

"I share your frustration."

Her anger flashed and cut like a knife. "You act like we're the same — you're wrong. I have a life, people that care about me. But you…this is all you have."

Cruel, but defensive, too. She was desperate to believe her own words, to believe the lie of her life.

He couldn't blame her.

"I have you," he said — simplicity and complexity tangled together.

She flushed, sudden and vivid. And though it wasn't what he'd meant, the memory of her, lithe and eager beneath him, flashed before him like hot lightning.

"You don't," she said, a small whisper, a hesitant strike. "_You don't."_

And then she was gone.

* * *

She made her way home, away from the frantic tumble of the day — _how_ had it only been one day? It wasn't even dark out, and she felt like she'd aged a year, two, ten. A man was dead because of her; instead of answers, she had only more questions.

But there was her ballistics report, and she had to sit for a few minutes, absorbing the impact. Not only a criminal's gun, but one guilty of a crime so serious that she didn't have clearance to even know what it was, let alone the details.

And so, she was left with still _more_ questions. Was there to be nothing for her to hold on to? All she had now was more doubt, more fear, more misery. Once inside, she found her home full of people, the most important of them now a stranger.

_I love you,_ the stranger said.

Every time he said it, she felt a little more insubstantial, a little less real. She stood in her own home, surrounded by friends, and she'd never felt more alone. She imagined Reddington, dining in solitary splendor in a fancy hotel, and wondered.

Wondered how he stood the loneliness; wondered if perhaps he treasured it. Perhaps the only safety was in being alone, in keeping a solid barrier between yourself and the world. She wondered, fleetingly, if he could teach her to be alone, to make isolation a strength, a purpose.

But as she smiled and chatted her way through the evening wearing a false face; as she tidied up the mess they'd left and helped Tom get into bed; as she lay beside him, staring wakeful at the ceiling…the memory that came, again and again, wasn't of passion and need, wasn't of the frantic, powerful coupling that haunted her.

Instead, she remembered the exquisitely gentle touch of lips on her skin, the whisper of her name with unbearable tenderness. And thought that even the strongest needed someone, sometimes.

Her anger gone like so much mist, she wanted him then, with a fierce and terrible yearning. Wanted that communion with someone who understood; who knew what it was like to have their life upended, uprooted, irrevocably changed.

With someone who could make her feel real again.

And even as she thought it, her phone buzzed quietly on the bedside table.

"Hello?" Barely a whisper.

A hesitation, then, "Lizzy?"

_Red._ "Is something wrong?"

"No, not…I just…" He sounded unusually unsure, and it gave her courage.

"What's the matter, Red? Are you okay?"

She slipped out of bed as she spoke, padding as silently as she could out of her bedroom and down the stairs.

A low chuckle on the other end of the phone. "I was actually calling to ask _you_ that question, Elizabeth. After everything that happened today, I wondered…if you were all right."

"I–I'm dealing with it," she said, not entirely untruthfully. Borne of her own longing — _maybe they could meet_ — she added, "Where are you?"

Another pause, and a slight cough. "My car is parked outside your house," he admitted. He sounded almost _embarrassed, _and she felt a strange surge of softness.

"Wait there," she said, and hung up.

She grabbed her jacket and shoes and slipped out the front door in her pyjamas, sneaking out of her own house like a neat bookend to her morning_._ The sleek black Mercedes was parked across the street, and she trotted quickly over to knock on the window.

To her surprise, Reddington was in the driver's seat. He stepped out instead of rolling down the window, making her hop back a little. He just looked at her, an inscrutable expression on his face. She wasn't sure how to read him; wasn't sure exactly why he was there. He wore his trousers and shirt, with a loose blue jacket overtop, hatless. It was like seeing a knight without his armour; it felt tantamount to seeing him naked.

"No entourage tonight?" she asked lightly.

A wry half-smile. "I wanted to be alone," he said, a quiet rumble.

"Aren't you always alone?" Her question was more wistful than accusing, this time.

A heavy sigh. "Yes and no," he answered. "Although having the company of those you can trust is invaluable, on occasion, even a silent companion is too much."

"Should I go back inside, then?"

He touched her hair, almost imperceptibly. "Let's go for a walk," he said.

_It's past midnight,_ she thought. _We aren't friends,_ she thought.

"There's a park at the end of the street," she said.

They walked along, companionable in silence. She kept her hands stuffed in her jacket pockets, but leaned slightly into his warmth. It was funny, she thought. She'd wanted to talk to him and he'd come to talk to her, and here they were, as quiet as if they were each still alone.

Funnier still was how easy it felt, walking together in the peaceful dark. As if they _were_ in fact, the oldest of friends. It didn't take that long to reach the park, and she was almost sorry for it. She'd intended to head for the wide bench under the trees, but as they strolled across the grass, Red laughed aloud.

"Look at that," he said gleefully, turning to her. "It's been _years_ since I've ridden a roundabout."

She couldn't help but smile at his expression. "You don't honestly want–"

"Come on," he said, eyes twinkling in the glow from the lightpost. "I'll push."

He hooked a hand around her elbow and tugged her over the grass to the pool of sand and the wide metal spinner. He put a hand on a curved bar and just _grinned_ at her, with the mischievous enthusiasm of a small boy. Unable to resist that joyful smile, she sat down, then scooted back so she was curled against the centre post with her arms wrapped around her knees.

"Not too fast," she warned, not very seriously.

He just winked at her, then started pushing, trotting around in a circle. He kept going until he was actually running, then joined her atop the disk with a nimble hop. He hung on exactly like a child, leaning all the way back with his face to the sky, laughing in unfettered happiness.

She couldn't help but laugh with him.

As the rotation started to slow, he crouched down and swung under the handles so he was in the section next to hers. She let her legs stretch out in front of her, and tipped her head back with a sigh. When she looked over at Red, he was lying flat on his back with his feet over the edge; when they came close to stopping, he gave a push or two with his foot on the ground to keep them going.

She felt better now, grounded, and wasn't sure how it had happened; was even less sure how thank him for the easing of her mind.

"I'm sorry for what I said earlier," she said quietly. Apologies were always a good place to start.

"Are you?" he asked mildly. "What did you say that you didn't mean?"

She flushed at that. "When I said that you had nothing, nobody — I want to say I didn't say it to hurt you, but I did. Of course, I did. I was angry at you, and frustrated. But more than that, I think," she hesitated, looking for the right words. "I think I wanted to make it true by saying it out loud. That you are nothing to me, and my life is full and fine. And of course, none of those things are true."

"We've only just begun," he said gently.

"That's the worst part," she answered, sliding down along the metal so that her head was next to his. "It's been what — two weeks, since we met? Three? Tonight, I went home to a house full of people, friends, loved ones. People I've known for years.

"And I felt more alone than I ever have. It frightens me, Red."

He turned his head to look at her, and their noses nearly touched. "I understand," he said simply, taking her hand and gripping, hard. "It's a terrible burden to live a life apart from those you care about. I truly am sorry, Lizzy."

"Why, then?" she asked, plaintive although she didn't mean to be. "Why did you come to me?"

He sighed, playing absently with her fingers. "There are things that you aren't ready to hear yet," he said. "And other things that I prefer not to share, not with anyone. But if you believe anything, Elizabeth, believe that I wouldn't have started this unless it was absolutely necessary."

"That's unfair," she said, snapping the words in angry snippets. "It's not your place to decide what I'm 'ready to hear'. And instead of answers, I just have to take it all on trust, and believe that it's for the best? This…dismantling of my entire life?"

"Would you prefer to live a lie?"

She laughs a little, bitterly. "Honestly? I don't know anymore. It would be nice," she continued, pushing herself upright, "to have just one thing left. Just one thing, to hold on to."

Red sat up beside her, and turned her face to his. "You can hold on to me," he said, low and solemn. "Have me as your touchstone, Elizabeth, as you are mine."

His hand on her skin was warm and gentle, but his eyes — his eyes burned green with a fierce intensity, as if he _willed_ her to accept his words. As if it were _necessary_ to his very survival. As if he could see inside her, to the mirroring need that smouldered there.

"It's wrong," she murmured, inhaling his spicy scent. "It's…dangerous."

"All the best things in life are," he said, just a growl now, not moving at all. "But it can't be _that_ wrong to take what you need to survive, Elizabeth."

Her breath stuttered; her brain flooded with hot, sultry images of him, of the two of them, locked together. He was so close; everything in her yearned for contact. All she had to do was let her neck relax and their lips would meet.

It was the wrong thing to do, for infinite reasons. But she was just so _tired._

Tired of pretending that everything hadn't changed.

Tired of suppressing the flickers of attraction and surges of heat that overcame her nearly every time she saw him; of lying to herself, trying to convince herself they were anger and fear and loathing, instead.

Tired of trying to forget his hands, his mouth, the intense pleasure she'd experienced at their instigation.

Tired of fighting her own every _thought_ — even his slight touches on her back earlier that day had done so much more than communicate. They had tantalized, they had thrilled.

She hesitated for another long moment, then she let go.

And _oh,_ if it was wrong, it was worth every sinful moment. His mouth was warm and supple, accepting hers with a hum of welcome. Where their first touches had been fierce and rough, careless and desperate, this was…different.

Soft kisses, not even open-mouthed; a quiet passion that sparked and glowed. Their lips moved together in perfect tandem, as if they had been lovers for years rather than being relative strangers, caught by lust. Her skin tingled with the contact, her stomach quivered with butterflies.

His warm hand still cupped her cheek, thumb rubbing over the apple, stretching the skin. Rather than a desperate delving, her tongue traced the outline of his mouth delicately, asking, not demanding. Rather than a flash of inner fire, a slow warmth uncurled inside her like rising smoke.

It was immeasurably enticing, devastating to her senses, and extraordinarily reckless.

* * *

Her mouth threatened to destroy him, soft and sweet and seeking. He let his thumb stroke against her, loving the feel of her skin. He reached under the metal bar between them to curve his free arm around her waist and pull her closer, as close as possible. Her body was pliant under his hands, her breasts full and plush against his chest.

He let himself sink into her, tasting, drowning in her rich honeyed flavour. Warmth lapped over him in waves, alluring and lovely. He slid his hand down to wrap around her neck, curling his fingers to tangle in her hair. She was murmuring wordlessly into his mouth, giving him something precious.

Her arms were around him now, hands under his jacket to grip his shirt and keep him close. Her heart beat faster and faster, urging on his own. He thought he could kiss her for hours, days, years. Her tongue made a questing pattern, tasting him in return. In the space between the edges of her jacket, there was only the thin t-shirt of her pyjamas. It provided no barrier at all to her rising heat, to the rise and fall of her breathing.

He wondered a little absently if she wore anything under the equally thin cotton pants. His hand around her waist slowly and cleverly spread its fingers to edge beneath the hem of her shirt and her elastic waistband at the same time. Only velvety silk grazed his fingertips, and he made a deep noise of appreciation and pressed them harder into her skin.

It was intoxicating, just this — fused together, mellow and easy; shared breath and gentle hands, brushes of texture and shape. She made a little noise in response to the dig of his fingers, seductive. Her fingers tightened and pulled at the fabric of his shirt, one hand moving to palm the back of his head; his body heated and hardened, forged by her.

The slow climb was enticing, sublime. He was dizzy and shaken — with the spinning of the disk, with the insubstantial ground, with _Lizzy._ He wanted to stay here, just like this, until dawn. He wanted to see, touch, taste, every inch of her. He wanted to haul her off to some forgotten island and spend _weeks_ making love.

She nipped at his lower lip and he growled, tried to pull her even closer. Her breath left her in a little _oof_ of dismay as she hit the metal bar between them, and she leaned her forehead against his, breathing fast, eyes shut tight.

"I think," she started.

"Don't start now," he said, squeezing the nape of her neck, letting his nails prick lightly.

She stretched under his hand with an appreciative hum of sound, then sighed. He could tell from her expression that she both regretted the end of their interlude, and was thankful for the interruption.

"We're in a park — a _playground_ — in the middle of the night. And…we can't let this happen again, Red, you know that."

"Can't we?" he said, sounding half-amused, half-wistful. "You know, Lizzy, I don't usually _let_ things happen, anyway. I prefer to _make_ them happen."

"Oh, I just bet you do," she replied, laughter behind her words.

She pulled away from him gently, and he released her, but let his hand trail along her leg, just to hear her breath catch one last time. She wriggled to the edge of the roundabout and stood up, then turned and offered him a hand. He took it, and kissed the back of it in a long press. She flushed pink and dropped her eyes.

"Come on," she said, tugging on his hand. "Walk me home."

He pushed himself off the cool metal and upright, then pulled her close, instead. She curled into his arms with another sigh; he pressed his cheek to her temple. Relief filled him at her seeming acceptance, her lack of anger and regret.

"No strings," he murmured. "You can hold onto me, Elizabeth, when you need an anchor. Separate from the work we do, from the past and the present. When you need something real, come to me."

"Red," she said, just that, his name, and he held on a little tighter.

"You're just what I needed," she said, and pressed a shy, light kiss to the side of his neck. "I hope…" She pulled back so she could look at him. "I hope I gave something to you, too."

His heart thumped; it felt too big suddenly, to fit inside his chest. He ran his fingers through her hair again, cupping the back of her neck briefly.

"You have no idea, Elizabeth."

The smile she gave him was just another gift that he would tuck away and carry with him, always.

* * *

She slipped back into the house, quiet, dark, still. She leaned briefly against the door, trying desperately to process the swell of feeling inside her. It was one thing to succumb to lust, to need, in a moment of passion that could be forgotten.

_(If only it could; instead, it haunted her, a ferocious ghost.)_

But tonight…tonight had veered dangerously close to something else, something much worse. Something so tremendously inviting that she was afraid she wouldn't be able to stay away. The way he _looked_ at her – sometimes, as if she were something precious, to be treasured; sometimes, as if he wanted to strip her bare and ravish her where they stood.

It was potent, exhilarating; it might well be irresistible.

_Try harder,_ she told herself firmly. She was _married,_ she _loved_ her husband. If he was an imposter, that had still to be proven. Wasn't he innocent until proven guilty? Didn't he love her, too?

She didn't know, and it was the uncertainty that made her weak, made her susceptible to this…whatever it was. She just had to focus on work, on doing what she was supposed to do. And hope that, somehow, she could find out the truth.

And hope that the truth would solve her problems, and not destroy her.

She slid into bed, tired now, even the whirl of her thoughts slowing with exhaustion. She thought that finally, she might be able to sleep. Beside her, the blankets moved, a sleepy noise of interrogation.

"Liz? Is everything okay? Were you up?"

"I had to take a call from work," she whispered. "I went downstairs so that I wouldn't wake you, I'm sorry."

Had she always been able to lie so easily, or was this another life lesson she could lay at Reddington's door?

"They should leave you alone at night," Tom grumbled, throwing an arm around her. "Come here, it was cold without you."

She smiled, not sure if he could see her face in the darkness. She let herself shift close, snug against her husband's form. She listened as his breathing evened out into sleep, tried to match her breaths to his.

She pressed her head into his shoulder, shut her eyes, and wished. Wished hard that she would sleep, and that when she woke, her life would be right again.

That everything could be the way it had been, once, not so very long ago.


	3. The Stewmaker

_June 23, 2012._

Why did it sound familiar? Her mind raced as she slipped out of the lock up and made her way to the office. _Angel Station._ She wrote down both before they disappeared from her mind, troubled, when Ressler appeared, chatting, challenging, ruining her train of thought.

So, they were _still_ watching her, still didn't trust her. Could she blame them, when it was true enough that she was keeping secrets? From them. From her not/husband. From Reddington; maybe most of all, from Reddington.

Then, it was off to answer to the man himself. Yet another dictator in her life. How long could she spend at the beck and call of…basically everyone? It was hard; it hurt. To keep running and chasing and searching, while everyone around her just sat and watched with suspicious eyes.

Whatever her doubts about Tom, at least he still looked at her like he loved her.

Her stomach tightened as she approached Reddington on his bench; couldn't help remembering his soft words. _You can hold onto me, Elizabeth._ She kept her head down; didn't look at him.

And he was…simply himself. His voice warm and gentle as he congratulated her on her work; then both cheery and brusque in that complicated way he had of imparting bad news. This time, news of Lorca, finagling behind the scenes; news she most assuredly did not want.

She didn't believe it, _refused_ to believe it. Until she had to. Until once again, she was left behind with the dead, and no answers.

_Always left alone._

Infuriated, frustrated, she dialed Red. And got Dembe.

"Put him on."

"Mr Reddington is not avai–"

"_Now."_

A murmur of voices in the background, Red's rich laugh.

"Sweetheart, it's not really the most convenient time for me."

She knew it was just for cover, she knew it was meaningless, and _still_ her treacherous heart gave an eager, thrilled little thump at the endearment. Still wished, for a flicker of a moment, that it was real.

It was easy to channel her anger at herself into her anger at him.

"I don't give a rat's ass," she snapped. "Where are you?"

Anger would keep her going through the futility and frustration. And she had plenty to go around — anger at the case going sideways, at yet another senseless death; anger at Red's flippancy and disregard, anger at his _absence._ How could she hold onto him if he wasn't there?

With nothing else to do, she took his advice and went home, a quiet place to rest after a filthy day. She looked at her laptop, at her notes. Maybe if she…

Then Tom was there, smiling, charming, _loving._ She scribbled carefully over her notes, hiding, while he talked, soothing her as he did so well. It didn't work _quite _as well as it used to, though.

"…I can always tell when you're lying."

_Oh, _can _you now._

But then. Sweet relief, _so much relief._ June 23, 2012, they'd been together. _Together._ Impossible for him to have been doing something awful and criminal and unknown. She rested her head against his, practically limp with the sudden loss of stress. He kissed her, and she loved him then.

Even if he didn't really know all her tells. Even if there were still so many unanswered questions. For herself, for a moment of peace, she let herself forget the money, the passports, the fear.

And took refuge in love.

But love couldn't keep her safe when the world erupted into fire and pain.

* * *

He couldn't quite figure out why he found her anger so engaging. Why the snap and lash of her temper was a stimulating enticement rather than a repulsion. Why the sharp angles of her voice made it so much easier to picture her, flushed and yearning against him.

Perhaps it was simply that any strong emotion was better than none. After all, anger was passion in its own right.

She lingered in his thoughts, an ephemeral haunting to accompany him through his day.

And it wasn't just Elizabeth herself — there was something about her case that nagged at him as he smiled and charmed, as he completed his business. He regretted having to brush her aside, as necessary as it had been; thought now, as he sat on his jet, that it may have been a bit hasty to do so.

He called her, still thinking, quick and calculating.

"What do you want?"

He couldn't help but grin at the whip of her voice, but kept his own smooth and even, gathering the facts that confirmed his thoughts.

"You see, Lizzy, _now_ I'm interested. The Stewmaker is in town."

Things took on momentum after that — the breakdown of the case, the necessary information imparted. His eager hounds let loose on the trail, seeking their quarry.

He could never have imagined how sorry he would be to have set her on this particular path, and how quickly. How desperate he could become, in the blink of an eye, in the flash and burn of an explosion.

_Lizzy._

His fear, his fury, were cold and fierce, a wave of frost that propelled him forward. He already had the meeting; he would get the information he needed out of that distasteful ruffian one way or another. He met Ressler's accusations with a brisk and icy disdain.

"Your witness is dead, you lost Lorca, and he took Agent Keen. I'd say my meeting with Lorca might be the equivalent of you falling on your ass and landing in a pile of Christmas."

He chafed at the ensuing back-and-forth; wished fervently that he could have just walked away, and taken care of things in his customary fashion. Couldn't help but slice out in his anger, at them, at himself.

"You lost her. I can find her. It's that simple."

Instead, he found himself encumbered with Ressler. More unnecessary complications, more obfuscating, more _work._ Although, he had to admit, it went better than he'd imagined it would. And it was always entertaining to watch Donald sweat.

When Lorca spoke of Elizabeth with venom and hate, he wanted to snap the man's neck. Could easily have killed him then and there. Years of practiced control stood him in good stead, however, and he kept the game going. Kept all the balls in the air with a _spin spin_ _spin._

Kept himself talking, in charge, slick and easy, ever the Concierge. And got what he wanted, like he always did. The only rule that mattered in any negotiation — always be ready to walk away.

The opposition would fold, every time.

He left the company of the FBI as soon as possible, knowing he'd do better now on his own. With Dembe to keep him centred, and Luli to keep him check. While she could, at least.

He would take care of Lorca in due time. Elizabeth was the priority now.

And, of course, getting to her, to Stanley Kornish, before Ressler and his team.

It was key that he get there first.

* * *

She woke to such darkness that at first she was afraid her sight was gone, destroyed somehow by the blast, by the blow that had knocked her senseless. It took only seconds to realize that she was merely blindfolded, but those seconds felt like a lifetime.

Her head thumped painfully, her bones ached from slamming into the ground. A few more seconds to gather herself, and she knew she was in a car. Which meant travel, who knew how far or how long. How distant safety might be, or how impossible rescue.

The light, when it came, was a shock rather than a relief. Her muscles cramped from her stint in the trunk, she stumbled on rough ground. When she could focus again, the utter banality of her captor somehow made him that much more frightening.

She did her job though, face to face with danger; remembered what to do, followed her training as best she could.

_Talk to him. Make him see you as a person, try to identify with him. Make it as hard as possible for him to hurt you._

"I was asked to make you suffer," he said, frighteningly calm. She was suddenly glad that she could no longer see his expression. "I'm…I'm sorry. It's my job."

Her job was to think her way out of this horrific situation, but when the pain came, sudden, sharp, _excruciating,_ she couldn't do anything but scream.

It didn't seem hard for him at all.

Her whole world was a bright shriek of agony, and her torturer remained as placid as a still pool. The nerve cluster in her shoulder. Another just below her elbow — the funny bone turned out to not be very funny, at all. The back of her jaw, in the soft hollow behind her ear. The meat of her inner thigh, with his hand on her leg making her afraid, so afraid.

But there was only pain.

It wasn't her team she thought of then, weak and gasping and hurting, drooping in her bonds. It wasn't Tom she longed for, whom she pictured walking through the door to stop her suffering. Not even faceless rescuers, friendly emergency responders who would somehow discover this cabin of horrors, deep in the woods.

It was _Red_ she wanted, with every last piece of her soul that remained intact. Red that she yearned for, to come into this dank room and punish and destroy; to take her out of this nightmare.

It was Red who was her talisman against the dark that hovered, enticingly, just out of reach. Who kept her struggling, long after she thought she could, to free herself and fight. To run, and keep running, even when she could only stumble, even when every step was a fresh torture.

And in the end, as if she had conjured him with the depth of her need, it was Red who stood waiting, to stand as her shield against evil.

* * *

The weary resignation on her tearstained face was somehow worse than the blood, the bruises, the shaking limbs. She had accepted the inevitability of her death, and it was _that_ he would never forgive.

He took the time to resettle her, to try and make her more comfortable. To turn her away, so she would be protected from the sights to come. To reassure her that she was safe. To give her a touch that was gentle.

And then he told the story that he knew, watching the face of depravity. It didn't look so very different than his own, really. He comforted himself with the thought that he had never purposely harmed the innocent.

Until now, he supposed, seeing again her limp form and empty eyes. He had, if not directly, harmed the one he treasured most, simply by being a part of her life. By bringing her into his dark and terrible world.

And yet somehow, even with her body still seized in the agony this man had caused, she had it in her to plead for him.

Any such mercy within himself had been burned away long ago. It was simple to end this particular life — every single person on this earth would be better off. Despite her horrified gasp of sobbing breath, he thought that she knew it, too.

It was easy to distract the hounds, to take what he needed without being noticed. The long neat lines of small jars told a story beyond the one he had told, one of suffering and misery, wreckage and slaughter. It was…reassuring, to know he had done the right thing.

More difficult was listening to her break, at last, giving in only now that she was safe. To watch her weep out her fear and pain, in the arms of another. To know that a small part of her was gone forever, and that he was the one responsible.

Knowing that, ultimately, that loss would make her stronger was of little comfort.

He missed her anger now, as he looked into her tragic eyes, gone grey with exhaustion and torment. He gave her the record book, though he wished he didn't have to. Tried to rouse her spirit with sharp and prodding words.

"You're a monster," was her sole response, and her voice was calm and still and cut like a knife.

"Yes," he agreed, without hesitation, though he bled and hurt, because it was true.

Because it was worth it, to keep her safe. Because if he played the monster, she could stay clean. He could live with the beast inside, wear its mantle without complaint, as long as it kept her alive.

Red had made his peace with his monster long ago.

* * *

Every part of her body ached, even after a warm bath. She wished she could forget, forget everything that had happened over the past two days. She wished she could focus on a vacation with her husband, and look forward to having a break. To curl up in his arms and sleep, free and simple.

But that had already been ruined with the flash of a name. _Angel Station._

Was she never to have peace? Was she always to be locked in this teetering place of uncertainty? And with the resurgence of doubt to keep her from settling, she was stuck.

Stuck in that dim little room with its chemical stench and damp chill. Stuck with the lingering horror, the pain, the misery.

With the feeling of overwhelming relief that had swept her when she saw Reddington's face; when she felt his hands on her, soothing, caring.

She desperately needed to talk about what had happened, and couldn't. She couldn't talk to Tom, who knew nothing about any of it. Couldn't talk to anyone on the team; didn't know any of them well enough to trust with her tangled feelings, her agony.

She needed Reddington.

She was texting before she could think too hard about it. _Where are you tonight?_ she asked Dembe, thudding down the stairs as she typed. An address back, relatively quickly; _We'll be there in 20 minutes or so._

"Liz? Is everything okay?" Tom looked at her curiously from the couch. "I thought you were going to bed after your bath."

_Please,_ she typed, _ask him to wait for me._

"I have to go back to work for a bit," she said, making sure to roll her eyes. "Loose ends to tie up."

"It's nine-thirty, babe," he answered, annoyed. "What on earth is there that can't wait until tomorrow?"

She shrugged and offered a rueful smile. "My new boss is a real stickler, and I can't afford to tick him off. I'll be home late — don't wait up, okay? You need your rest."

He sighed. "So do you, you know," he said gently. "I don't know what happened today, but…you aren't yourself."

Maybe she _was_ an open book. "I'll be fine," she said, trying on a smile. "Just a little tired."

He smiled back, and reached out. She took his hand and squeezed; let him tug her close and kiss her. "Be safe," he said. "I love you."

"You too," she said; it was all she could manage.

And then she fled the place that should have been home, that should have been sanctuary. And headed toward the closest thing to safety she had left.

He didn't look surprised to see her, when Dembe let her in without a word. But then, he never did. She would never understand how he seemed to know her so well, when she knew next to nothing about him.

Except what she learned in dreams.

His expression, in fact, was impassive, his eyes still and unreadable. But when her leg shook as she tried to take the seat he offered, his arm came around her, warm and strong; took her weight and lowered her gently.

Another caress, fleeting, over her hair, and she closed her eyes to absorb the simple pleasure of it. It brought relief, just as it had earlier, the knowledge that he cared for her, that she was safe. She fought to keep from collapsing in a trembling heap at his feet, and not just to prevent the pain it would cause.

"What brings you here so late, Agent Keen?" His voice was as dispassionate as his face, cool and distant.

"I…" She wasn't sure what to say, how to explain why she had needed him.

Why she had hurt him.

"You must be tired," he said.

"Yes," she agreed. "I…" What was she to say?

His eyes gentled a little, a slight relief. "Why aren't you at home in your bed, where you belong?"

"Because I _don't_ belong there." A truth that cut on its way out. "Because I have nowhere to belong, anymore."

He sighed heavily, as if letting go of something, then moved to sit beside her on the soft couch. "You always have a place with me," he said quietly. "If you want it."

"I shouldn't have said it." Her words were louder than she'd meant them to be, and hung in the air between them. "I shouldn't have…I just wanted it to be true. Because…because when I heard that splash, when I knew he would die, it wasn't horror I felt."

She looked at him, pleading for understanding. "It was relief; it was _joy._ I was _glad_ he was dead, that he felt something of the pain and suffering he'd caused, that he was gone from the world. If I was sorry for anything, it was that _I_ hadn't been the one to kill him." Tears ran down her face, unheeded, unnoticed. "A-And that thought, that feeling, _that _was the monstrous thing. I didn't want to claim it for my own; I wanted you to carry it for me."

He closed his eyes briefly; bit the inside of his cheek, pained. He'd never intended this torment for her. "I don't mind sharing your burdens, sweetheart," he said quietly. The endearment slipped out easily, too easily.

He should have stuck with "Agent Keen."

"Oh, Red."

Her lip quivered, and he wanted nothing more than to take the stricken look from her face. He reached for her, and gathered her gently to him; held her as she wept. He ran his fingers through her hair — or tried to.

"Lizzy, there's still dirt in your hair. And…" A small smart in the tip of a finger. "Pine needles?"

"I fell," she mumbled, her voice muffled against his chest. "And I hid behind a tree when I ran from him."

"But didn't you…"

"I had a bath," she said, pulling away a little and rubbing at her eyes. "But I…I couldn't…" Tears ran faster again, as if she couldn't help it. "Even with the painkillers the EMTs gave me, I couldn't lift my left arm. My–my shoulder just…"

His eyes were kind again, looking into hers as he smiled with a tilt of his head. "I'm sorry, Lizzy, so sorry," he said, wiping her cheek with his broad thumb. "Let me help you, care for you."

She gave a shuddering sigh and sniffed a little. "Please," she said, tucking her head into the crook of his neck, wrapping a hand around his tie and tugging gently.

He kissed the top of her head, solid and real, then tightened his arms around her and stood. As if she weighed nothing. As if it was the easiest thing in the world.

She felt dangerously _home,_ finally, in his arms.

Despite the risk of it, she let the feeling overtake her and _breathed_ at last, as the pain lessened. It didn't really make sense; it didn't matter. The relief of it felt too good to worry about; his hands on her, his scent in her lungs, were the remedy she had needed.

She didn't bother lifting her head from his sturdy shoulder until he was setting her on her feet, careful, delicate. Her eyes were still damp and blurry, but they were clearly in a bathroom, sumptuous as always. She just stood where he'd put her, as if in a trance, while he started the water in a shower wide and deep enough to be a room by itself.

She blinked, aware now of her bone-deep tiredness. When her vision cleared again, steam was already starting to cloud the air, and Red was standing in front of her, a hesitant look on his face.

"Is something wrong?" She felt so _heavy._

"Would you like something more for your pain?"

She _did_ still ache, with a deeper throbbing every place the Stewmaker had probed with his wicked needle. But…

"Better not," she answered. "I'm tired enough, and I'll have to drive again, eventually."

"All right," he said. "If you're sure." He hesitated again, then ran a gentle hand over her cheek.

Even more gently, he began to undress her, peeling off her layers with infinite care. He folded her things neatly onto the long counter, making her smile. When she was down to just her utilitarian black bra and panties, even her socks tucked neatly into her discarded boots, he curved his hands lightly around her upper arms and _looked_ the question he needed answered.

"It's not as if I have a change with me," she said. "And it's nothing you haven't seen before."

The corner of his mouth twitched, but he didn't say anything; responded instead by deftly and impersonally removing her underthings and helping her step into the shower. Rather than watch him undress — there was such a thing as _too much,_ after all — she stepped under the spray and let the heat soak into her.

It wasn't long before his hands were on her again, cool in the hot water, tucking her hair over her shoulder so her back was bare. Soft, sweeping movements over her skin, soap that smelled of orange peel and herbs. It was easy to relax into his sure touch, to let him wipe away everything that clung, all the inky dark things that no one could see.

He ran his hands down her body, over her sleek curves, savouring without guilt. Although she stayed almost unnaturally still, he could feel her tension dissipating in his wake. He crouched to reach her calves, to lift her feet one by one, letting the water run over his face.

Finished, he wiped his forearm over his eyes as he stood again. Her head was bent forward under the steady spray. He reached to turn her; paused to press his lips to the nape of her neck, just a taste, though he couldn't help but linger a bit. She eased a little more under the intimate touch; sighed with a little hum of sound. When she turned in response to the gentle pressure of his hands, she was almost completely loose in relaxation.

She thought vaguely that it was odd to be so relaxed, and yet less tired than she had been. The light touch of his mouth had stirred the simmering inside her, a heat that stretched through her limbs. Turning to face him, she saw that he had made an attempt at modesty, at propriety, by leaving on his boxer briefs. She thought idly that the wet, clinging fabric was almost more enticing than nudity.

She would have touched him if she could have moved, the warm gold of his skin, spotted with water droplets, ridiculously appealing. But his hands had anchored her; she felt weighted down, rooted in place under the pattering water. She let out another long breath, a faint smile. And just let him care for her as he would.

He rearranged her hair again, now soaking wet and heavy, then bent back for more soap. He rubbed his hands over her shoulders with the utmost care; was pleased with himself when she didn't even wince. Slid over her collarbones, traced down the midline of her body. He watched her eyes flutter closed as he followed the swell of her breasts, cupping her gently in tender hands.

He tried not to take advantage, but he couldn't help but let his palms circle once, twice, indulging himself in the feel of her, enjoying the way her breath quickened. He moved fluidly over her ribcage, the dip of her waist, the curve of her hips. Down her slim legs, feeling her muscles quiver under his touch.

Shifting his right hand to her left leg, he slid inward as he straightened again, watching her. He let his long fingers slip over her, the lightest of contact. She let out a sound that intensified the heat inside him, that made him cup his hand and stroke more firmly.

_Red,_ a faint whisper of sound in the air. Her head was tipped back slightly to keep the water from her eyes; he bent his head and kissed her, a move of instinct, of need. A hot hand on his arm, the soft give of lips.

He withdrew almost immediately, and she felt the loss like another throb of pain. He smiled at her, the real smile that made his eyes bright and the corners of his mouth crinkle. He turned away again, coming back to her with another liquid handful.

Then his hands were in her hair, running through the thick strands, firm against her scalp. He used his fingers deftly, working loose all the knots and tangles, stroking in smooth movements. It was more than a cleansing; she felt almost _remade_ by his hands, a little bit closer to the stronger, surer Elizabeth he wanted her to be.

Conditioner, then, and he ran his hands through her hair over and over, like he couldn't stop. Until the strands felt like silk against her back, and she was so relaxed she felt almost dizzy. She reached out and hooked her fingers over his waistband, just so she didn't fall over.

He tipped her head back to rinse the front of her hair, resulting in a long lovely line from the tip of her chin to the hollow of her throat that called out to him. He leaned in, stilling his hands to cradle the back of her head, then kissed his way gently down the enticing column bit by bit. He shifted his feet to try and ease the ache in his groin; licked up the drops of water beading on her jawline.

"Can you stand alone for a minute?" His voice was a low rumble in her ear.

She swallowed, then laughed a little. "I honestly don't know."

He laughed too, then eased back, holding onto her arms until she was steady on her feet. He slipped out of the shower and grabbed a towel from the generous stack; drying himself with efficient economy.

Snagging a fresh towel, he beckoned her out then, slipping an arm around her when she was close enough, to help her over the step. He wrapped her up, then leaned in to turn off the water; grabbed yet another towel that he rubbed gently over her hair, squeezing out the excess moisture and tucking the ends under. He paid much more attention to her body than he had to his own, the towel more like a caress than anything else. Yet she still hissed out a sharp breath when he reached the tender spot on her shoulder.

He frowned at her. "Still hurting, Lizzy? Let's see," and his voice dropped to a low, rich drawl, "if we can do something about the rest of that pain."

He tugged her gently into the bedroom; she stumbled foggily after him. He pulled the covers back with one hand, then helped her to lie down, right in the middle of the bed. He looked at her with gleaming, hooded eyes and a wide, wide smile. She blinked up at him, feeling the familiar quiver start deep within.

He sat beside her on the bed, tucked her hair back. "Just lie very still," voice so low it was barely audible, "and let me take care of you, sweetheart."

She started to say something, but stopped when he stretched out beside her and pulled away her towel. He leaned on one elbow, head propped on his hand so he could watch her face; drew the other hand down her body with the palm flat against her damp skin, leaving behind a trail of bright awareness. He teased briefly at her thatch of curls, then nudged her legs apart to slide his fingers along the soft warmth between them.

She hummed in pleasure, her eyes closing as he parted her folds to find her center. When he brushed her clit, deliberately light and fleeting, she came alive with sensation. It felt as if every stroke of his hands, washing her, had left a mark, an imprint on her skin that came bursting awake with this new touch. It felt as if he touched her, not just in the one, most delicate and sensitive place, but _everywhere,_ all at once.

Her breath quickened, her body curved toward his, almost of its own volition.

"Ah ah," he murmured, shifting his hand to her leg; she whimpered at the loss of contact. "Stay still now, Lizzy."

"_Red."_

"Stay still," he repeated, and then stroked her again, slow and deliberate.

His attention was a new torture, every touch measured and even — it would have been peaceful if it wasn't so distractingly stimulating. It surprised her to realize how lying still, as he continued to explore with clever, meticulous fingers, made the sensations so much more intense.

He delighted in her — in the rosy colour that spread over her, in the small sounds she made to relieve her tension, in the slick heat that beckoned him ever closer. When he finally slid inside her, just one careful digit, the _look_ that swept over her face made him lean in to press his lips to hers.

He wanted her with an ache in his bones and a fierce, hot yearning in his gut. But this, this was just for her, to ease her suffering, and the thought helped him temper himself. She met his kiss eagerly; he could feel her fingers twitching against his side as if she wanted desperately to touch him, but wanted equally to remain still and quiet.

"That's it," he whispered, making a path down her neck with soft, soft kisses. "Just absorb it, all the sensation; let it wash through you and take the pain away with it."

His hand was moving again, working gently in and out of her, a slow, easy rhythm that seemed like it could go on for hours. Maybe it already had. Heat pooled inside her, simmering quietly. She lost awareness of everything but that hand, his mouth on her skin, the cool whisper of his breath.

He let another finger join the first as he reached her breast and ran his tongue delicately around her taut nipple. A gentle suck, another, and her breath started to stutter. He thought he might never get enough of her, of this, sweet and lovely. He pressed in with his teeth, ever so slightly, simultaneously pressing his thumb against her clit and his fingers against the front of her.

She cried out, a deep, shivering call — one of the most alluring noises he'd ever heard — then she was pulsing around him, hot, wet, clutching.

"Breathe," he murmured, and she gasped hard, as if she really had forgotten.

He let his hand keep moving, soothing, as his mouth made its way back to hers. It was a pleasure and a comfort both, as she came out of ecstasy and back to herself. She was limp as a rag and utterly exhausted, but he'd been right.

The pain was gone.


	4. The Courier

**A/N: **Apologies for this being such a long time arriving — but it's here now! Many thanks to everyone who took the time to comment and check on me, and be generally lovely:) Further apologies for the weirdness, as I wrote this in chunks over the last however many months, and it's kind of mess. I hope it's even partially worth the wait…

* * *

Awakened with a start, heart pounding furiously, breath short and choking. She willed it to still, to calm; willed herself back to sleep with a crushing sense of despair. And it must have worked, because he woke her a second time, later, and the brief glimpse of his face on waking had her turning into the pillow. Just a moment, just to marshal her nerves and put a normal expression back on her face.

As he talked to her with a glowing light in his eyes, so happy, so enthusiastic, she wondered again _how _this could all be a lie. How this man, the man she loved, could live his entire life, plan a _family, _all as a deception. Could anyone really be so thoroughly convincing, so _real, _with no tells at all? For _years. _She remembered the darkness that had swept over his face in her dream, and shivered, inside.

As she sat in her office, sparring distractingly with Ressler, she couldn't quite shake the nightmare. These black thoughts had begun to taint her days relentlessly, until she could barely _look _at her own husband without shuddering. Without fear.

As she still told herself firmly, _It's all nonsense, somehow, it's lies. _

As she still wished fervently that she could believe it.

She was absurdly grateful for Reddington's call. The last thing she needed was more confusion, but…somehow, somewhen, he had come to represent _safety. _And the cluttered house, with stack after stack of books and papers and not-quite-hidden bottles of mystery hooch, was somehow so very like him that her chest finally, _finally, _eased.

"Would you like me to pour you a few fingers?" he asked, rich voice amused, that sensual twist in his lip.

"Why am I here?" she snapped, reprieve gone in a flash, far too quickly. _Keep him on the case; don't think about his fingers, working magic on your skin. _

With a smile that told her he knew exactly what she was doing, he broke it down for her, giving her the facts in his testing, searching way that made her think. She welcomed the call to action, the manic pressure of a case. The distraction, the intense focus it required allowed her to shuffle the entire mess to the back of her mind — the horror and the temptation both.

For now, anyway.

And running was better — running toward, running away, running, running, running. The movement was what mattered, mind and body both spinning furiously through the day. The pain of the small accident—throbbing in her head, sharp in her shoulder—was nothing compared to the driving need to escape her own thoughts.

The Courier, caught, was so calm as to be almost placid. She wondered if he cared about anything at all; wondered how he found that sweet and quiet place. It was as if he felt nothing, as if he didn't care.

She envied him, and was horrified by it.

When the time came to see Reddington again, she only wished for it to be finished.

* * *

Time weighed heavily on him, with nothing to do but wait. Wait and read, and briefly distract himself with Frederick's nonsense. He missed Frederick, he thought, laughing aloud at a letter even as Lizzy arrived again.

He'd know by the change in the scent of the air, even without the tell-tale sound of her boots.

She'd changed for her trip to the farmer's market, and looked younger, somehow, more vulnerable. She was angry again, and he thought it must be utterly exhausting to _feel _at such extremes, all the time.

Lulli swept through, bringing him tea, a kind gesture. Wearing nothing but her sleek black underthings and one of his shirts, which was not. She winked at him even as he watched Lizzy's face darken — jealousy? _Perhaps. _The thought made him smile again.

Despite her pique, it didn't take much effort to get her to release some of what had been bothering her; he thought she must have been suffering over it a great deal. And who wouldn't, imagining their husband a murderer? Everything about her changed as she gave her small confession — her expression softening from anger into worry, her voice turning light and questioning, like a child's.

_Tell me I'm wrong, _her unspoken words begged. _Tell me it's a lie. _

He wanted to hold her, to soothe her fears away and give her the peace she so clearly needed, but such a thing was impossible. Instead, he gave her what she'd asked for, and then thanked her.

That surprised her, her whole body stiffening with it as she turned back to look at him. He smiled, almost wistful.

"For being honest with me," he said, his voice as dark and deep as his thoughts. "In my life, I don't encounter that frequently."

She was smiling as she left, and he counted that a win. Of course, things never stayed simple.

"Her name is Laurence Dechambou," he said, admiring the photo on the screen. "Ex-French intelligence."

And the back-and-forth began all over again, frustratingly onerous. It would be so much easier if they would just do as he said the first time, instead of insisting on screwing it all up first. He didn't get what he wanted from them either — of course — but they'd come around after their way had failed as spectacularly as he knew it would.

"Or just bend over any available piece of furniture and let her slap you on the ass," he said cheerfully to Ressler. "She loves that."

He _did _enjoy the black look he got from Lizzy in return for that glib remark. Rather than finding it petty or ridiculous, her jealousy satisfied him in a way he couldn't quite identify. It…soothed him.

He should have probably been more worried about that than he was.

And _of course, _the FBI failed and he had to do all the work, _again. _Just the right mixture of sweet talking, promises, and veiled threats got what they needed from Laurence. And eventually, he got what he needed from young Seth, as well.

If only everything could fall into place so neatly.

* * *

_Again, _she'd reacted visibly, given him the advantage. It was ridiculous to be possessive of Reddington, anyway — and she wasn't, she _wasn't _— when she had– Her phone buzzed, shaking her out of her thoughts.

"Oh, my God, Tom. Oh God, he's going to kill me." (_Metaphorically, _she insisted inwardly.)

"I'm so sorry," she said, real contriteness in her voice. She'd _wanted _to go to the ultrasound, she _really _had, for that first sight of their new baby, that precious promise.

"You need to come home," he snapped in reply, and his voice was the cold and angry voice of her nightmares. "I canceled the ultrasound, okay?"

She couldn't speak, just _couldn't, _her voice stolen by the shock of that icy sound.

"Liz?"

"I can't do this right now," she managed, because it was the solid truth.

"Look, I don't care what's going on at work, okay? You and I need to talk."

His anger, his demands, her own fear — it exhausted her. _Keep calm, just be rational. _

"Something incredibly important came up." She often thought he forgot that her work involved actual lives.

"I don't care!" His voice was rising now, anger transformed to rage. She was horribly certain she knew exactly what his face looked like. "You and I need to talk about something, and it's more important."

She drew a breath, _calm. _"I promise we'll talk as long as you like, but later. This is an emerg–"

A dial tone in her ear, sullen and droning. He'd hung up on her. She couldn't quite believe it. She had just a moment to wonder what had really gotten him so very angry, and then the race was on again.

She'd not imagined her day would end with Reddington and Dembe, searching a junkyard for young Seth Nelson.

"He's in the dirt," Red said suddenly, certainty ringing.

"What?"

"The refrigerator, it's a coffin. The Courier buries things under his skin. He's in the dirt…right here."

And then they were all scrabbling desperately in the dirt for what was hopefully _not _a body.

And they found him. Somehow, against all odds, they found him, and Dembe brought him back to life.

She thought she should feel happier about it all.

Wrapping up the paperwork at her desk, ready to go home but reluctant to do so, when it came.

The file.

The truth.

Victor Fokin, a dead Russian tourist, but a suspected mole…possibly ready to defect…white male suspect… Her vision started to blur as she read. The photo, oh God, the photo, a low-res surveillance photo of the suspected killer.

Was Tom.

Was clearly Tom, her husband. Or not, if she wanted to believe Reddington. Which would be better? Did it even matter?

Thoughts tumbling, confused, angry, sad — oh, so sad, oh, for her pretty life, gone forever now — she turned toward Reddington like the needle of a compass.

* * *

He'd forgotten how truly stupendous the sunsets were, here at this cluttered little house on the hill. Newton's presence by his shoulder was a vague irritation, easy enough to ignore.

"This man, the young NSA agent... He allowed you access to the classified networks?" A conversation that couldn't be as easily ignored.

"He did."

"And I understand this was a one-time offer."

"Yes." He sighed inwardly. Newton would never understand, _couldn't _understand.

"The right question, and we could've made the world tremble. Finally found our adversary. Why did you waste it on the girl?"

"Not 'wasted,' my friend. Circumstances are far more complex than we ever imagined. I'm betting on the long play...the future."

The quiet sound of a car engine. "Your future's arriving now."

The petulant displeasure in the other man's voice just made him smile. And the smile lingered as Elizabeth entered the room.

Conflict raged as he looked at her, standing there in the dimming light. The slim curves of her, her porcelain beauty, spurred him, made him want to take and ravage and tear down her stalwart walls. The shadows under her eyes, the sadness carved into her every line, gentled him, made him want to wrap his arms around her and cuddle her back to herself.

The track of a single tear on her cheek was heartbreaking.

She took the drink he offered without comment, her slender fingers brushing against his, and stared ahead as if she could see something that he could not.

"Funny... all these wonderful manuscripts, and my favorite thing about this place is still the view from the sofa. I love how the light breaks through the trees." He gestured with a half-smile and looked away, out at the setting sun.

"I don't even know why I'm here," she said quietly. She took a sip from her glass and choked over it a little. "God, that's awful stuff."

Her head ached abominably, and she longed to rest against his sturdy shoulder, feel his strong arm around her. _He's always so _warm, she thought, drifting. It was addictive.

It was dangerous.

But she couldn't seem to stop herself from turning to him, sidling a little closer over the worn cushions, letting her shoulder rub against his in a friendly sort of way. He wrapped an arm around her, as she'd known he would, pulling her into warm comfort. She shuddered all over, once, and sank into him, the tension in her body seeping away like water down a drain.

They sat for long minutes, drinking together in companionable silence. Her sorrow had faded into the background, like an unpleasant hum she couldn't _not _hear, but could ignore.

"Be with me," she said suddenly into the quiet, surprising even herself. "Help me forget this wretched day."

He raised an eyebrow thoughtfully. "Am I merely a panacea to your poor work day, then, Elizabeth?"

She scowled at him, leaping to anger as her defence, her only defence. "What, you'll sleep with every other woman you meet, but not me? Have you forgotten that you already did? Or are you a one-time-only ride?"

Her words were sharp and cutting, but her tone shook, betraying her. She honestly wasn't sure that he wanted her, and it was mystifying. He was both enticed by her uncertainty and annoyed by her rudeness — an unusual combination, even for him.

"I'm sure you didn't mean to be unkind," he replied, his tone deceptively mild. "But I'm not a toy, to be picked up and discarded at whim. And I won't apologize for living my life before you came into it. I learned long ago to take pleasure where I could find it."

She flushed, uncomfortable and embarrassed. "I didn't mean…I just…" She sighed heavily, suddenly tired of pretenses and longing for an escape from herself. She didn't know who she was anymore. "I didn't like it," she admitted, keeping her head down. "Hearing you talk about that woman, thinking about you with her. It bothered me, a lot more than it should." She couldn't mention Lulli, couldn't think about anything that immediate.

He smiled at that, since she couldn't see him. "Possessive, are we, Lizzy?"

That smarted. She exerted herself to keep her tone even. "Of course not," she said, as coolly as she could. "I hardly have any right to be, do I?"

"You don't, no. Perhaps just a little reassurance?"

"I'm not just another conquest, am I?" God, she felt stupid.

He wanted to laugh, triumphant, but didn't. He shifted them both so they were facing each other, and cupped her face so that she had to meet his eyes.

"Oh, Agent Keen," he said, warm and rich, an echo of their first meeting. "I think you're _very _special."

She remembered, he could tell by the way she smiled. By the way her gaze lingered on his lips. He leaned closer, let his hand trail down her arm.

"Still having those dreams, sweetheart?"

To his surprise, she shuddered, her expression withdrawing to one of cold unhappiness.

"No," she said quietly, "I wish I was. I'd give anything to have you back in my dreams, instead of the fear. Take them away?" she asked impulsively, searching his face again. Looking at him now, she was suddenly certain there was nothing between him and his attractive accountant. "Fill my head with _you _and take away the rest?"

She closed the remaining inches between them, and pressed her lips softly to his. He hesitated then — to be used was a different matter than to be desired — but instead of making her pause in turn, it seemed to make her more determined. She wrapped herself around him, supple limbs and tempting heat, swinging over his lap, swift and sure.

"Lizzy." A murmur against her mouth that tantalized. "I don't think–"

"Don't," she interrupted, wanting, _wanting _, "don't think. Just _be." _

She felt him sigh, a capitulation. Then everything in him relaxed against her, and wasn't that a marvel? It was both strange and arousing to have this man, polished and urbane, hard and ruthless, _a monster _her brain whispered, soften at her touch. Soften for _her, _while her hands roamed and her body warmed; while she nipped and teased and did as she would.

Now _this _was a dream worth having. She pushed down all the sour notes and unpleasantness of the day and just lost herself in him. The scent of his skin, the sharp tang of his mouth, the crisp folds of his shirt. The way he sighed against her lips and touched her with such delicacy, fingers wrapping into her hair. She kissed him, long and lazy, to suit herself.

He tugged her closer and she let herself press into him, as much safety as sensuality. Even as she once more did the most foolish thing possible, his arms around her made her feel safe, secure. She let the heat build slowly, almost leisurely, as she unbuttoned his vest and ran her hands around his back.

Her mind was hazy, deep in the dream of touch, exploration, when his hands found their way to her skin, rough and hurried. His fingers danced over her body, his lips an intoxication. The blissful fog disappeared, replaced by things sharp and urgent. A blur of touch and taste — of his mouth hot on her breast, of the bright taste of liquor, of all the hard and soft places.

Clothes were torn off in a hurried tussle, and he was inside her with no thought for preparation, no thought for Grey or Lulli or Dembe. No thought for anything but quenching the terrible need that tangled between them. She made a small, surprised sound, and then a moan of satisfaction as he started to move.

_Too fast. _The thought struggled to the front of his awareness, _too fast, too frantic, _but he couldn't listen, didn't care, couldn't slow the fevered pump of his hips. She matched him, anyway, thrust for thrust, nails pricking as she held on. Urged him on, even, an eager cry, her teeth in his throat. He swelled, impossibly, and the sun burst behind his eyes.

He actually felt a little faint.

He held her as best as he could as she curled into him, warm and damp and panting. She thought, somewhat smugly, that she'd driven him to extremes. He smelled so good; his heart beat hard against her cheek. She pressed her lips to the spot, almost absently, still floating in a pool of pleasure.

He murmured her name into her hair, _Lizzy, _and she remembered with a start where she was. And exactly who her sweaty, naked body was pressed up against. She stiffened, couldn't help it. He sighed again, a much more familiar one this time.

"Don't panic," he said. "Just…let it be, for now. For a few minutes."

And with his arms around her, in a musty old room gone to twilight, she found that she could.

* * *

The house was quiet and still when she walked in — not even that late, by her current standard.

"Tom?" she called hesitantly, unsure if he was even there.

But then, there he was, sitting and waiting for her, looking at her with an expression utterly unfamiliar in its coldness.

"We need to talk," she said, thoughts whirling. About her job, about the baby, about…

But then, "That's funny," he replied. "I was just gonna say the same thing to you."

And the chill invaded her bones as he dragged a familiar wooden box between them.

And the nightmare took her over once more.


	5. Gina Zanetakos

Real fear, when it came, was much worse than any nightmare. Real fear left her icy cold, but sweating; made her tremble, but left her unable to move; brought bile to her throat, but had her gasping. Real fear swamped her as she stood, facing her husband over a wooden box.

But then, bewilderment, as suddenly she found herself arguing, not over who Tom really was, or what the box meant, but which of them it actually belonged to. _Arguing, _when the box was full of _Tom. _And still, voice shaking with her disbelief, she had to argue it. Argue _for _her husband to be a _murderer, _just so she would know she hadn't lost her mind.

And he railed at her, yelling, yelling and gesturing like _he _had gone mad, demanding answers. Why was _he _the one demanding answers? How did the tables turn so easily, so simply? Why was she suddenly defending herself against accusations of _evil, _when…when…

What was the truth, anyway? And then, suddenly, everything turned on her, again.

"If you think I'm guilty, then why don't you do something about it?" Like a child, making a dare. "Why don't you call the FBI?"

And somehow, then she _was, _and her life lay broken around her in sharp shards that cut her every time she moved.

A swift ride to the Post Office, a hooded Tom beside her, hand-in-hand. The errant, unwelcome thought struck her that for someone so confused and afraid, his hand was cool and dry and steady, for all his fierce clutching at her fingers. She shook it off, and tried to explain to him about the black site, and what she did, without actually saying anything at all.

Without saying the words, _Raymond Reddington. _

They were separated, of course, and this time, she could believe he was as afraid as she, as Meera led him away.

"You're gonna be okay," she assured him, wishing, hoping it was true. "Just tell them what happened. Tell the truth."

_And make it something different than what it seems. _

Then Cooper was sending her home, _home, _as if she could just leave and forget everything that was happening. As if she could sit in her living room and not bleed to death among the pieces of what she had lost.

She'd never been so thankful for a call from Reddington.

Sitting on a bench in front of the White House — she knew he reveled in the irony, but _really _— facing away from him, together but not, it was easy to forget his hands on her. His fingers, rough and hurried; his mouth, hot and wet and enticing.

Easy to forget how she'd wanted him.

Easy _enough, _anyway. Except he was droning on about politics and corporations and running the world and she _didn't care. _Couldn't care one iota less than she did right now. The world could burn, and she still wouldn't care, in this moment.

"I thought we were here to talk about Tom," she said, a weak attempt. Even his name slashed like a blade.

But Reddington just _kept talking. _She wished she didn't have to pretend, suddenly, wished she could whip around and confront him. Demand the answers she needed, force him, somehow, to show her the truth.

But he just kept talking.

Wait.

A woman? _What? _

"Gina Zanetakos."

"I don't know who that is," she replied, bemused. Maybe she should have paid a little more attention.

"Gina Zanetakos is a corporate terrorist. And frankly, she's the best of the bunch. Lizzy, if you want to find the truth about your husband, then you need to find Gina."

"Why? Does she know Tom?"

"Because she's Tom's lover."

And her heart broke, again. It was probably hypocritical. Maybe it was her just desserts. Did Reddington think this would make her feel _better? _Because it didn't.

She was a tangle of guilt and misery and fear, and if she _did _find this woman, it was all too likely the first thing Liz would do would be to punch her in the face.

* * *

He hurt for her, he really did. Every step he took seemed to damage her a little more, leave her a little less _real, _somehow. And he regretted it, regretted every word he spoke, every action he forced her to take that would lead her to the truth.

Except that the lie would hurt her so much more, in the long run. Knowing that, at this point, was what enabled him to stay steady on the road he had put them both on.

As he quarreled with Cooper — cheerfully enough; he rather enjoyed it, if he were to be honest about it — her tragic face lingered in the back of his mind. Along with futile memories of the previous evening. Of long, lingering kisses; of fingers that mapped him out. Of being _inside _her, and how much it felt like _home. _

He regretted that it came down to mild threats, but he couldn't afford to give here. Give in once, and the whole precarious pile would topple to the ground.

He won, of course. It was gratifying, but also annoying. They all knew he'd win, so why bother arguing in the first place?

But that's how the game was played.

And so off they scattered, his little team, to do his bidding while he got back to business. He was unaccountably nervous over this — he shouldn't be, not with Tom Keen's chickens about to come home to roost, and Lizzy on his side for good.

And yet.

Why was Keen at the FBI? What purpose did it serve? Red spent no time considering it was Lizzy that had put him there — Keen had _wanted _to be there, and not just to prove an innocence that he didn't have.

It nagged at him, like a bad tooth, as he went about his day.

When Lizzy called again, full of news of Zanetakos and a dirty bomb, he wondered even more. Not about the texts — surely each villain had more than one phone, and Tom Keen wasn't real anyway. He did wonder what name on that phone belonged to the imposter, though, if he _was _there. What did those closest to Keen call him, and did it even remotely approximate his real name?

It didn't matter, he tried to assure himself, as he jousted with Lizzy.

"Perhaps they exchanged letters," he deadpanned, at his driest. _As if that scoundrel could write a decent letter. _

"There's nothing between them," she insisted. "My husband is innocent."

_As I am not, _lay unspoken between them as she clicked off. Red missed the ability to slam down a receiver like the crack of a door — he was sure that at that particular moment, Lizzy missed it too. A beep was a beep, regardless of how you felt about it.

And then they were together again; a different park, cool stone steps. She sat beside him now, and they faced the world from the same vantage point. She was silent for a long time at first, and he waited patiently for the storm that he knew must come.

"I didn't know where else to go," she said finally, her voice small and tired and sad. The heat from her washed against him, and despite everything, he let himself enjoy it, just a little. Her fresh scent, so familiar already. The softness of her hair, shifting in the breeze.

The _reality _of her was intoxicating. But now tears came, and his heart broke for her all over again.

"I feel like I'm drowning," she said, clearly exerting an enormous effort to keep from sobbing aloud. "I don't know what's real or who I can trust."

_Oh, Lizzy. _"You can trust me," he said, voice low and rich with all he felt for her. _You're safe with me, _he wanted to say, although it wasn't true. Couldn't be true.

"I needed you to be wrong about him," and the words sounded like they _hurt, _coming from her emotion-tight throat as tears trickled slowly down her cheeks.

He wanted to take her in his arms and hold her close, to keep the world at bay. Provide her shelter, a safe harbour in which to land. And who in this park would know any better, anyway? Who would know that they shouldn't even touch, the criminal and the agent?

He knew it would matter to her, though, so he just nodded and took her hand, held it in his own. Tried, with the simple pressure of his fingers, to tell her that he understood, that he was here for her. That everything would be all right, that he cared.

And sat with her, until she seemed to recover herself. Just sat, until she was in one piece again, however fragile.

Just sat, and tried not to think about the swelling tenderness in his heart.

* * *

His hand in hers was entirely different than Tom's had been, was steady and reassuring. Warm and gentle, he grasped firmly, giving comfort as he could. And it _was _comforting, to sit and just _be. _He didn't try to make excuses or change the way things were, to cover the horrible truth.

He just gave her his sympathy, and it was the best thing. And the simple understanding in it almost shattered her heart all over again.

She longed to lean into him as she had before; to be enfolded in his strong arms and shielded from the world. She wondered, for one wild moment, what he would say if she begged him to make her disappear as he had so many others. To whisk her away on his sleek jet and give her a whole new life.

Of course she couldn't ask, and running away wasn't really her style anyway. As impossibly difficult as it was, she knew it was better to face things head on, to deal with things as they were.

She just wished it didn't have to hurt so terribly.

And he just sat with her, his thumb rubbing absently over their joined fingers, a soothing presence that was a balm to her abused soul. She found she could breathe again, sitting here beside him; thought that maybe, just maybe, she'd be able to go forward after all.

"Thank you," she said quietly, when at last she felt able to move again.

He just raised an eyebrow in return, and she managed a slight smile.

"For being here," she explained. "For making everything bearable."

He offered a real smile in return, and squeezed her hand tightly. "I'm here, Lizzy," he rumbled quietly. "Whenever you need something to hold on to."

It wasn't the first time he'd said that to her, but now she believed it, right through. And thank goodness, she thought, thank goodness he'd been there, or she might have just fallen apart; disintegrated into dust.

She took a deep breath and stood up, but he didn't relinquish her hand. She looked down at him, and he looked back, squinting a little against the sunlight.

He brought her hand up and kissed it, a sweet, simple gesture of affection, a soft brush of lips that sent a reluctant tremble through her.

"Whatever you need, Lizzy."

And then they just went their separate ways, like ships passing, like strangers.

This tumultuous new existence might well be the end of her, but if she could keep moving, maybe she could survive.

And there _was _movement, a new clue, a task for Reddington, who agreeably buzzed off to Germany like it was no big deal. Maybe it wasn't, who was she to say? Meanwhile, she worked and thought and argued. And watched.

Watched through one-way glass with her heart breaking over and over as her husband pleaded with his own reflection to believe him. _I know you're there, _he said, and he was right. She couldn't stay away. _I didn't do anything, _he pleaded for her acceptance, and _oh god, _she hoped it would somehow, miraculously turn out to be true.

Then, Zanetakos, _at last, _and another brutal fight. She was pretty tired of getting choked, to be honest, and hadn't anticipated this aspect of field work. Was this really what it was like _all the time? _The physical toll was intense — she was fit, she'd passed the physical exams, she'd thought she was ready, but…

She just hadn't predicted the frequency of fist fights.

And then, a bullet threatened to ruin her chances of _ever _knowing the truth, and she was so enraged she forgot to thank Ressler for saving her life. All she could do was rage, rage at the loss, rage at the danger, rage at the destruction of everything she held dear.

If she was tired of fighting, at least she could still think on her feet. A quick back-and-forth with Reddington and she had it, the reason for the bomb, the location. And she was able to keep moving.

Any triumph she felt at succeeding withered away in the face of Gina Zanetakos.

Calmly taking responsibility for Victor Fokin, completely exonerating Tom of every possible crime. Placing guilt, instead, in the hands of Raymond Reddington.

_No. _

Could she have been so wrong, so naive, so foolish? Was this all just part of some wickedly masterminded scheme to what — get her to trust him? To isolate her and make her dependent? Or was it only to ruin her life, some sort of Machiavellian revenge for a crime she wasn't aware of?

Her heart ached even as it rejoiced. Her safe harbour was anything but, was a lie, a trick, nothing but artifice. She'd _believed _in him. Cared about him. _God, she'd _fucked _him, twice now. _She wanted to peel out of her own skin, and leave it behind her, a filthy relic of her own wrongdoing. Shame and misery competed in her chest, her throat, and she had to flee to the hospital washroom to vomit, leaving Meera in the hallway. Thank goodness the other woman wasn't the type to ask questions.

But there was Tom, and as they held each other, hard, there was relief. Her pretty, perfect life _could _be hers again, after all. And then, he was pointing out a photo on the glass wall, _that's him…who I met with, _and any last shred of hope she had for Reddington was gone. Because it was Grey, Reddington's man, Tom pointed at, and her soul was scoured and bare.

She couldn't even bring herself to yell, as she strode into the empty apartment Reddington was spending his time in.

"Please do come in," he said sardonically.

She supposed he was offended by her rudeness at what — not _knocking? _He was lucky she didn't just shoot him where he sat.

"You and me," she said, voice angry but level, steady and sure. "We're done."

Unbelievably, he still tried to make Tom the villain. _Take the fall, _sure. What reason could there be? Hard evidence had proved Tom innocent and Reddington guilty. _Guilty. _

"I can only lead you to the truth," he said, and he sounded resigned, now. "I can't make you believe it."

Whatever acquaintance he had with the_ truth, _she was sure it was fleeting.

"The truth," she spat back, "is that you're a sick, twisted man. This, your _obsession _with me…"

She almost couldn't continue. _How could you? _she wanted to howl at him. How could you lie to me like that, how could you make me care for you, why would you touch me, _fuck _me, _take everything? _

"I don't understand why you would do this, any of it," she said, instead.

"Go to hell," she said, and meant it. She walked away, and went _home, _back to her husband and her real life.

And hoped she was leaving Reddington behind for good.

* * *

He sat, left behind, the shards of all his fine plans scattered around his feet. He stared blankly at the soulful Rembrandt which had only moments ago given him such pleasure, and bit his cheek against the pain.

_Go to hell, _she'd said, and hadn't even sounded that angry about it. She merely consigned him to the abyss, as if, _as if _he didn't already live there. As if the flames that had marked him didn't still scorch and scar with his every move.

_Except with her. _

He closed his eyes tightly against the loss of her. Elizabeth, ephemeral and elusive. Beautiful, clever, kind. _Believing _in him, as no one had in so long. Her warmth, the light of her smile. Gone in a flash.

He gazed at the painting again, appreciating both its beauty and the power of its symbolism. _The Storm on the Sea of Galilee. _The blues really _were _extraordinary. He looked at the Christ figure, and envied that calm repose, the faith in a greater good. He'd come _so close _to that serene sanctuary, and now he was lost again, tossed into the teeth of the storm, fighting for survival.

Would the storm calm for him? Or would the fury of wind and wave overtake and destroy him, and everything he'd worked for?

He wouldn't allow it.

His enemy had outthought him — this time, at least. He sighed deeply. There was no going back, so he could only look forward, make new plans. The truth would out eventually — if it was going to be a little more difficult to reveal it than he'd thought, well…

He was no stranger to hard work.

And it would be hard, to work with an antagonist rather than a willing, if sometimes reluctant, participant. Her anger lashed quick and harsh and hot, and it would afford him no pleasure to face it on a regular basis. He'd just have to see how things went, he supposed, and the next steps would reveal themselves as they always did.

But he would miss her.

The give-and-take of their work together, the easy partnership. Her openness to a new way of thinking, of seeing the world. The way she'd _seemed _to come to trust him.

The companionship of a sympathetic warm body beside him, sharing a drink and the loveliness of twilight. Walking together in peaceful silence, spinning in the dark. Her soft mouth, inviting; her silky skin, a temptation. The sweet heat of her at the core, drawing him in.

_Home. _

He shifted in his chair, trying to alleviate the sudden ache in his cock. He downed his scotch and tried not to think about it.

He might as well try not to breathe.

He groaned and stood, holding back the images as he walked out of the room to the sparse bathroom. He braced a forearm on the wall above the stained toilet and pressed his forehead into it; let the visions come.

Lizzy, all creamy skin and nervous anticipation. The clean, citrus scent of her hair; the sharp answering taste of her. His free hand yanked open his flies and he groaned again as his hand wrapped around his eager cock.

The sweet little mewls she made when he touched her just right. The way she hooked her heels together over his ass to pull him closer, and closer still. His hand moved roughly, short strokes, the slap of skin. The perfect rosy buds of her nipples, the way she arched when he used his teeth.

A warm trickle already leaked from his tip — all he had to do was summon the image of her in his mind, under him, over him, _god. _He moistened his palm with it; lengthened his strokes into long pulls. He thought of her, wrapped around him and urging him on, hot and wet and tight. The soft lushness of her breasts against his chest; the clutch of her strong thighs.

He moaned, couldn't help it; his hand quickened, the ache near unbearable. He felt like a teenager again, desperate for release, compelled by the mysteries the female form. By _one _female form. All the women he'd been with over an adventurous life, and not a single one had affected him like this.

She was right; he was obsessed. He thought he should feel guilty about using her this way; took some comfort in the fact that she'd wanted him just as much. _Be with me, _she'd said, not that long ago. And that fast and frantic coupling had imprinted itself on him, leaving him wanting her, _wanting her. _

Sweat beaded on his skin as the familiar heat uncurled at the base of his spine, his hand jerking fast, his orgasm spiraling out him in long, hot spurts. The relief of it was almost painful. Suddenly exhausted, he tucked himself away; rinsed his hands at the sink and was thankful there was no mirror.

He tried to think of next steps, and couldn't. He needed to find Dembe, and go somewhere else, somewhere clean and comfortable where he could sleep. Once he'd slept, he'd be able to find them.

His next steps out of hell, and toward home.

* * *

Home was _home _again, she thought with relief, as she followed Tom through the door. Both of them exhausted, they didn't say much, just headed straight for bed. The routine of getting changed, teeth brushed, moving around one another in smooth, habitual ways eased her, sanded down the rough edges of her anger.

She climbed into bed and switched off the light as Tom came around to his side, and sighed, long and heavy. She felt him slide over and tuck an arm around her.

"I know what you mean," he said quietly. "It's been a very long day."

"You could say," she answered wryly, and made him laugh.

"Liz," he said, and kissed her cheek, nuzzled into her neck. "I love you. I'm so glad this is over."

"I'm so sorry," she managed, bringing a hand up to cup his cheek. "I love you, too. This whole thing…it's been so awful."

"You should have talked to me right away," he admonished gently. "You can _always _talk to me, Lizzy."

She turned her head to his and just _breathed. _"I…I _couldn't." _

"It's going to be okay," he said resolutely, kissing her again. _"We're _going to be okay."

Their lips met, easy, familiar, sweet. But his lips were cool and dry, and just reminded her of the _other, _of warm, soft, wet, and she was washed again with sickening guilt. She pulled away and stared at the ceiling.

"What's wrong?" he asked, raising up on his elbow to look her in the eye. "Is everything okay?"

She had to tell him. "Tom, there are things…I haven't told you everything. I…" She _couldn't, _couldn't look her own husband in the eye and say that she'd lost faith so far and so fast.

Couldn't tell him about Reddington, at all.

"Liz, it's okay," he said, stroking her cheek with a soft finger. "Your job…I don't really get it, but I understand there are things you can't tell me. I guess," he continued with a little laugh, "it's _you _that's the secret agent. Lizzy Bond," he teased.

His understanding was her undoing, and tears began to fall, unbidden, unwanted. He wrapped his arms around her and held her; rubbed her back and whispered soothing words. It just made her feel worse.

She wept out the guilt and anger and tumult of the day; the terror and loss she'd struggled through for weeks. The fact that his shoulders weren't quite broad enough, that his embrace wasn't quite as warm and secure…she wept harder, her own sinfulness spurring her sobs.

And still, he held her and rocked her and whispered that he loved her, and that nothing would change that, not ever. That they were meant to be together, and that this hadn't broken them. That nothing could, if the past few weeks hadn't.

Empty at last, of tears, of words, of emotion, she curled against him, head tucked under his chin. He kissed her forehead one last time, and she pressed her lips to his collarbone.

"Love…you…" she murmured, as she slipped, drained, into sleep.

She didn't see him watching her, eyes glittering strangely in the dark room. Didn't see the strange smile he wore as he lay back with his free hand tucked behind his head.

Didn't hear him laugh, low and feral and triumphant, while she slept.


	6. Frederick Barnes

Liz slipped downstairs in the early morning sun; fished the cards from her bag; dug a roll of tape out of the desk drawer. Leaned against the dining room table for a long moment, and tried to imagine enjoying a meal there, with the ever-present image of her bleeding husband superimposed over the scene. A hole in the floor that had almost ruined her life.

Determined, she carried chairs, leaving one to sit on; stacked them neatly in the living room. Dragged the table after them, took pictures off the walls.

She'd never really liked that wallpaper, anyway.

The sun shone brightly through the window as she started to tape up colour samples, holding them in front of her to evaluate each one. A fresh start, she thought, and maybe she'd be able to shake the heavy guilt that dragged at her constantly. Although she and Tom had talked and talked, working through all the turmoil, mistrust, and unhappiness brought by one wooden box, she hadn't been able to confess the worst of her sins.

She just couldn't; couldn't bear to see the look of horrified, angry betrayal mar his face again. Couldn't bear the shouting argument, the venom and vitriol that would be sure to follow. Couldn't bear the thought, that after everything they'd survived, that she could still lose it all.

"What…is this?"

His voice startled her out of her thoughts, so sharply and abruptly it was all she could do not to jump three feet in the air. She hadn't even heard him come down the stairs. Striving for normal, she answered, turning in her chair.

"Café au lait," she said, trying to be cheerful about it. "Unless you like the dark nut better. But don't decide yet."

The teasing back and forth that followed was comforting, was _normal. _Spoke to the two of them being happy and adjusted and _alone _in their relationship again. _No more intruders, _she thought. He was smiling at her, and she loved him, _loved him. _

She hopped onto his back, to hold him with her whole body, to try and tell him how sorry she was, how much a part of her he was.

"I'm just so sick of this room."

"Why? I like this room," he said mildly.

She rested her head against his with a sigh. "It's not the room. It's just that someone invaded our lives, our house. They put that stupid box in the floor."

She felt him tense, slightly, against her. "That doesn't matter anymore."

She slid down, nagging guilt pick-picking at her. "They made me believe you were a monster."

Reassurance, immediate, honest. They were past it. She knew, without a doubt — he loved her, too, and they would be fine. _Fine. _Better than fine, even. This new room would be their new start, without doubts, without fear, without _Reddington. _

Even as she thought it, her phone rang, and the day began for real, with violence and blood and death.

* * *

She still wasn't taking his calls.

Red looked down at the phone in disgust, then glanced at Dembe. The other man shrugged, somewhat philosophically, and looked away. Red knew what he thought, without him having to say it.

Stubbornly, he phoned the FBI tip line and waited; it took quite a while to actually get through to the Post Office.

"This is Special Agent Keen."

_So official, _he mused, and wondered if she was trying to fool herself, or everyone else. _Probably both. _

"Agent Keen, I have a tip. You're a winter not an autumn. Stop wearing olive." He was deliberately baiting her; couldn't seem to help himself.

A little more banter and he'd set up a meeting — she would have to face him sooner or later, after all. She was still angry, but he didn't have any more time to waste accommodating her. He supposed he understood, but could not bring himself to regret a single moment of the time they spent together, all the same.

He let his head roll from side to side, stretching his neck gently and trying not to let the images flood his mind. There was no point in dwelling on what was past — and that certainly wasn't what he'd come here for. It was better to forget.

She brought Ressler with her, and he wanted to laugh out loud. Was that her effort to protect herself? Although, she was right, he supposed — he wouldn't bring up their…personal relationship in front of anyone else. It would only make trouble for them both, trouble that he could ill afford.

He told them instead about Frederick Barnes.

"Betraying your country and auctioning off its secrets. Where have I heard that before?"

She could be as cutting as anyone, he thought, with a small inner wince. Well, she didn't know any better, and he'd long since learnt not to care about the opinions of anyone but himself.

"You want to compare him to me? Be my guest. I'm perfectly comfortable with what I am."

And he rather thought _that _was what she couldn't understand, couldn't forgive. Not that he was a criminal, hunted, reviled. But, that he was unapologetic, comfortable in the role he played.

He _had _to be, or he'd have gone mad long ago.

* * *

_He just loves to hear the sound of his own voice, _she thought resentfully, as Reddington explained the rarity of Strontium 90 to the team. At least here, at the Post Office, with everyone else around, there was no hidden subtext, no piercing looks. It was easier to focus on the work, here, and pretend that he was just another co-worker.

Well, sort of.

Except, "You should come, Lizzy," he invited cheerfully. "We could have a therapy session on the way, talk out our problems."

Except a regular coworker didn't take their private jet to Cuba at a moment's notice. Didn't _invite _you along, tell you how beautiful you were.

Didn't just ignore how incredibly complicated it was. As if you could have a single casual conversation, and just forget someone invading your life, _seducing you, _and nearly destroying everything you held dear.

Forgive and forget.

She seethed and snapped as he plied her with his trademark charm, as if he _wanted _her with him, as if it was all just a _game. _

He was _too close, _in the elevator — she could smell the warm spiciness of his cologne; couldn't escape the bubble of his charisma. Had to shield herself with biting words and antagonism, which was easy enough. She had plenty of anger to channel, still.

Then, abruptly, he was serious.

"But in the meantime, we need to find a way to move past this. Because for me, there's just no fun in it unless you're there. And if there's no fun to be had, I'm not interested."

She watched him slide into his sleek car, slipping across the seat to snuggle up to Lulli as the door swung shut. Ignored the very small, insistent pang deep within at the sight. Tried to imagine that car, driving across the city. Reddington getting on his plane and winging away, and staying away. No more cases, probably no more field work…no more…

She shut her eyes tight and willed herself to stop. She _didn't care _about this. Thank goodness Ressler arrived beside her and they were off to question Barnes' former partner. And thank goodness Ressler wasn't one for small talk, so she could just stare out the car window and try not to think.

When they saw Ethan, and the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place, it was an enormous relief. Now they knew why — why Kurz disease, why Barnes started killing.

It was so much easier when things made sense.

Then Reddington called in with Barnes' location, and it was time to _move. _Fast-paced, running, searching, an attempt to save lives instead of lose them.

And of course, it was Liz that ended up facing him, alone on the courthouse steps. Barnes, face grim and determined, with a gun to a security guard's head. Her heart thumped hard, painful in her chest, echoing inside her head. She knew the protocols, she _did, _but faced with watching a man's head explode in front of her face, when she could stop it…

She put down her gun — what choice did she have? And saved a man's life. Surely, she could feel good about that.

Apparently not. A strip torn from her by Cooper, and then another, harsher and more callous, by Ressler. She felt sick and miserable and alone, thinking of the chaos that could follow, that would be a result of _her _actions.

Maybe, maybe there was someone who would understand. Sitting on the stairs in a quiet corner she dialled, slowly, unsure.

"Either you accidentally dialed the wrong number... Or you're calling because you've hit a dead end. So, which is it?"

His voice was at its driest, sardonic and cool, and made her shrink further into herself. _Show no weakness… _

"Barnes got away, and the trail's dried up."

He laughed. _Laughed. _"Oh my god, you g-men are top shelf. Let me guess. Ressler slipped on a banana peel?"

_If only. _She tried to keep her voice under control. "Do you know how to find him?" _Please. _

"I'm not a gumball machine, Lizzy — you don't get to just twist the handle whenever you want a treat."

He hung up. _He hung up. _Never mind the double entendre, _he'd _left her alone, too, high and dry with no answers and no help and nowhere left to turn. _That's not how this is supposed to work. _

She rung him back — what choice did she have?

"We can't keep doing this little waltz."

"Don't hang up," she said, desperate, unhappy.

And he must have heard it in her voice, because he didn't hesitate. "I'm listening."

"The reason Barnes is still out there is because I let him slip away. And it's only a matter of time before he kills again. So, please, I need your help."

And this time, he gave it to her. Not without strings, of course, she had to sacrifice a small amount of dignity, but it was worth it. It was interesting, how often he didn't just give her the answer, but led her to it, instead — like a teacher, a mentor. He probed and prompted and made her think in new ways, from new perspectives.

As much as she hated to admit it, working with him had helped her to grow, had strengthened her skills as an agent and a profiler. His pushing made her stretch and adapt; _think like a criminal, _he'd said. She preferred not to think of it that way, but whatever you wanted to call it, it worked. He was clever and quick and insightful, and she was learning to be, too — they worked well together.

Perhaps she would have to forgive, if not forget.

It was possible that the work was worth it, that the way she had changed was worth it. Or at least, worth _something. _Since he didn't seem inclined to be easy to get rid of, anyway.

Then, the time for thinking was gone in frenetic movement — the drive to the Forrester's house, waiting for Anne to answer the phone, listening, helplessly, as Barnes arrived and chaos began.

Having to listen to pain being dealt while she just… _sat there _was potentially the worst experience of her life.

Then, there was history repeating itself, facing down Barnes with her service weapon steady in her hands; a needle steady in his.

"There's no universe in which I let you stick that thing in his neck." And she meant it. Didn't she? Would she have it in her, this time, to shoot? What if Barnes was right? What if it _was _a cure?

What if it wasn't?

"This...is his chance. This is the only chance that he'll ever have. And I don't think you're gonna stop me."

Barnes thought he knew her; they _all _thought they knew her.

Even as she fired, three shots, point blank, perfect grouping, she thought she didn't even really know herself. She'd just killed a man in cold blood, an unarmed father trying to save his son's life.

And all she felt was a strange sense of vindication.

She wasn't weak, like they all thought. She was strong, and she would get stronger — she was going to need to.

She walked outside, mind curiously blank, moving on automatic. But he was there, _of course, _he was there, waiting for her, the spider in his web.

"What are you doing here?"

He smiled at her, in that way he had, leaning against his car, and her stomach flipped. She _didn't need him. _Guava, for fuck's sake, _who cared? _Why did he always hide behind supposed pleasantries? Why didn't he ever just say what he meant?

Then, he did.

Then, "Say what you will about Frederick, but someone who's willing to burn the world down to protect the one person they care about... That's a man I understand."

Breath clogged, uncomfortable, in her chest, her throat. "Is that meant to be directed at me?"

"Aren't you presumptuous?"

She barely even heard him over the roar of her own anger in her ears. And why else would he have said something so pointed to her, if it wasn't _about _her? "Is that how you somehow justify your actions, by some misguided notion of protecting me? From whom? My husband, I suppose.

"I don't need your protection."

"Maybe not." He didn't sound like he particularly believed it.

She took a deep breath, painfully. Because what she'd been thinking earlier was true. "But I do need you to do this job. I've accepted that. And believe it or not, I appreciate what you do for the bureau.

"And at work, you and I are partners. But that's where this relationship needs to end... at work. I don't want you in my personal life. I don't know how to make that clear." She shook her head at him, emphasizing her feelings, wishing she hadn't used that word, _relationship. _It made her think of things that needed to be forgotten.

He tipped his head and looked at her, the ghost of a smile hovering. "You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand? With a breath of air, they disappear."

He straightened, and moved closer, close enough that she could feel his body heat. She wanted to pull away, to run — _couldn't, _couldn't betray herself that way. Not to him. _Never to him. _

"You may not like me. You may not understand how or why I do what I do. But I'm here because you want answers to questions you haven't even thought of yet.

"Now, if that doesn't matter to you, the solution is simple... I get in this car and I disappear."

Her breath caught again. Was that what she wanted? Him, gone; real life, back again. Like it was. Every messy thing he'd brought into her life, gone. _Didn't she want that? _

"You have a deal with the government. You have a tracking device in your neck."

He chuckled softly. "You don't believe Raymond Reddington could cease to exist in 60 seconds? I offer that particular package to clients."

Her heart beat, fast, hard. "You're offering to walk away?" Why did the thought hurt, like a knife to the gut? Why shouldn't he turn and walk away, as easily as he'd arrived? Would _she _walk away, if she could? She almost reached out to him.

"I'm not going to beg you to allow me the privilege of helping you. So, say the word, and I'm gone.

_"Tell me to go, Lizzy." _

A strange emphasis to his words, almost like he _wanted _her to say it. Her lips moved, her eyes were somehow damp. She couldn't breathe properly. The words were right there in her mouth, waiting to escape, eager to be said.

But she didn't say anything.

"Then I guess I'll see you tomorrow."

Then, he was gone, off into the darkness to go wherever it was he went at night. She wondered absently, as she made her way back to Meera's car, if he slept. She couldn't imagine it, somehow — couldn't see him allowing himself that vulnerability.

He _personified _vitality, life. To imagine him in sleep, slack, deflated, _innocent, _was near impossible.

And far, far too intimate.

* * *

When she finally made it home, the house was dark, the only light from a standing lamp in the empty dining room, now blocked off with plastic sheeting. And there was Tom, in the middle of the room, eating Chinese out of the carton, and her weary heart swelled with love.

He'd heard her, she thought, he understood what she needed as no one else could. She sat beside him and leaned into him; took off her boots and just let herself settle. _This _was real life, this here, with the man she loved. The other was just…

The other life was a dream she couldn't wake from. But as long as she had _this, _she could cope.

She smiled at him, tired and content, as he talked to her about their first night there, in their home, together. And she remembered, as he talked, how happy she'd been, _they'd _been; starting out, fresh and fearless.

"That's all we had," he said, smiling back. "It's all we ever needed."

"Just you, me, and Ike," she answered, and _oh, _wasn't it still the truth? Wasn't that still how she felt, under the confusion and lies and guilt and anger?

It was as simple and as complicated as love.

So she kissed him, soft and sweet, and he looked at her like she really _was _all he'd ever needed, and how could she have doubted that? No one could look at another person like that and _not _mean it.

She let herself fill with love and need and want, and kissed him again, taking off his glasses and pulling him closer. He wrapped warm arms around her, and they rolled to the floor, knocking over poor Ike in the process.

She didn't care. _This _was what she needed, just _this, _she and Tom, together, as it should be. His gentle hands moved over her, in familiar patterns that still pleased her, regardless of how expected they might have been. His touch on her skin still made her shiver; his slim body under her hands still aroused her need.

_If you have love, _she thought hazily, _the rest doesn't matter. _

Clothes disappeared, a messy combination of their hands pulling at buttons and peeling back layers. Sensual, enticing, exciting. She arched into his palm as it brushed across her bare breast; he smiled into her mouth and his lips blazed a path down her neck, across her collarbone.

And even as his mouth caught one tight, aching bud and made her gasp, she had room to feel pity for Reddington, alone and without love. Room to remember how _he _had driven into her, hard and fast and desperate, as if afraid she might disappear.

Such stark loneliness must be the real hell; she'd do everything she had to do to avoid it.

She shook off the errant thoughts fiercely, determined to leave Reddington behind — he had no place here, no one did but the two of them, she and Tom. She reapplied herself to her chosen task with renewed vigour, making Tom grunt lightly in surprise, then respond eagerly.

He murmured her name against her belly and nipped lightly, then a little harder. Need intensified inside her, and she gripped his hair; dug her nails into his neck. His hands on her became a little rougher; he moved back up her body to capture her mouth in a hard, demanding kiss.

As he slid inside her, making them complete, a homecoming, she finally thought only of him.

* * *

As they drove up to the worn-out house, Red couldn't decide if the sunlight was perfect, or incongruous. It made everything shine, look more beautiful than it really was.

But it was a day for a funeral, of sorts. And the sunlight didn't match.

He got heavily out of the car and walked up to the front door, the screen hanging wearily from its hinges. _God, he was tired. _The previous day had been both physically and emotionally demanding — he wondered briefly if he was getting too old for this.

He shook off the thought as ridiculous. There was far too much for him still to do to even consider age or exhaustion. Usually the action, the demands of his life, invigorated him. Maybe it was just the personal antagonism aimed his way, these days.

He wished she wasn't so angry, but didn't know what he could do about it.

He brought himself back to the present and walked through the doorway after Lulli. He took his hat off; looked around. _Strange. _He peered up the stairwell, placing his hand on the newel post. Was this really the right place?

"Strange," he said aloud, looking, searching. "I remember it being bigger."

He walked on down the hall, Dembe already vanished into the depths of the house, Lulli trailing behind him. The two of them looked around the kitchen, dingy and forlorn. He barely recognized the place, and it shook him in an uncomfortable way.

"I don't understand," Lulli said, with her customary frankness. "Of all the places...Marigot, Doha, Florence, Seychelles...why this place?"

"I raised my family in this house," he answered quietly, walking further in, seeking…something. A recognition, a feeling of _belonging. _

"It's lovely," she said quickly, anxious not to offend.

He almost laughed out loud. "No, it's not. But it used to be."

Further in, to the back room, looking for memories. There, that door jamb…there was wainscotting covering it, but… He pulled at the cheap beadboard and it came away with little effort. There, his own writing, height marks, just where they should be.

His heart ached, and there, there were the memories, flooding back. He stood and looked out the wide back window, seeing, not what was really there, but back into the past. His beautiful girl, so delicate and fairylike, laughing, streaming bubbles behind her as she ran in the yard.

He wished, viscerally, that he could go back. That he could live that part of his life over again, _knowing _how fleeting it was, how quickly and easily everything could change. He wanted to reach out and grab her, his little daughter, and pull her into his arms, just one last time.

Even as he smiled, watching the poignant memories unspool in front of him, his heart broke one more time.

This house might be drab and dirty, neglected and forgotten. But there had been _love _here, love and family and happiness. Once upon a time, he thought whimsically, a man lived a normal life. And it had been everything, _everything. _

He could weep, but instead, "Time to go," came Dembe's gentle voice from behind him. Saving him from losing himself completely.

It took him a moment to be able to speak.

"Did you prepare everything the way I asked?" he said, turning slowly.

Dembe only nodded — because of course he had; if there was one stable, reliable thing in the entire world, it was Dembe. He nodded back briefly, and the other man turned to walk out. He followed, more slowly, rubbing the back of his neck to ease the ache, recovering his hat.

He was the last out, shutting the door with a quiet click. Time to leave this place, and the last of his past, behind for good. He tucked the vision of his golden child away in his mind, where she'd be safe, and walked away.

As they approached the car, Lulli ventured, "This place must hold a lot of memories for you."

_Too many. _He opened the rear door so she could slide in. "I spend every day trying to forget what happened here," he answered flatly. Dembe was already starting the engine. "This should help."

He got in the car so that they could drive away, drive away without looking back. They weren't very far at all when the explosion burst into being behind them, the sound harsh and alarming in the silent morning.

He listened, straining to catch every last echo, every remnant of the past disappearing into the suburban air. He made a silent wish, for his vanished family, for himself. That he wouldn't forget; that remembering wouldn't destroy him.

It was time now, he thought, to focus completely on the future. On what would be, not what had been. On forging the future that he wanted, out of all the glimmering possibilities. The future that must be.

It was time to focus on Elizabeth.

* * *

**A/N: **There's a fair bit of dialogue borrowed from the show in this chapter, so the usual disclaimer — anything you recognize isn't mine, and all credit to the writers, etc.


	7. General Ludd

The cool morning air felt good on her face as she pounded lightly along the pavement. The past few days had been good ones — really good, like they had been before…before everything changed. She and Tom were back on track and closer than ever, and work had been quiet and routine — not a word from Reddington, and the reprieve had been a welcome one.

Even her ever-present headache was gone. She felt strong and refreshed, _normal _even, as if she was ready to face whatever the world had in store for her next. She was taking time to enjoy the simple things, and when she let herself back into the house and heard the shower running, her face lit up with a grin.

Later, she moved swiftly through the house, running late now. It had been worth it though, she thought with a small smile. Tom was lingering over breakfast in the kitchen, watching a news report about a plane crash — _how awful, _she thought absently, heading for coffee.

Then her phone rang, and things changed. Her father — and despite his assurances, it wasn't normal for him to call first thing on a weekday morning. _Just tests, _he assured her, _don't worry, it's nothing. _

Not nothing _enough, _if he was phoning her like this.

"If it's serious, I want to be there," she insisted, frightened, frightened.

"It's not." Gruff and grumpy, just like always.

"Don't say that just 'cause you don't want to bother me. You're my dad. You're allowed to bother me."

"It's just a test, Lizzy."

"Okay. Leave your phone on and call me as soon as it's done, okay?"

"All right."

"Dad, I love you."

"I love you, too."

She went to work — what else could she do? — worrying in the back of her mind through the drive, the morning chit-chat with Aram, worrying until she found herself standing beside Reddington in Cooper's office, listening to them argue.

"Absolutely not." Cooper's voice, firm, commanding, assured. "I'm not giving you access to the FBI's ViCAP system."

"Then you'll just have to find another criminal to talk to Elizabeth Keen and make fun of Agent Ressler." Reddington was no less sure, no less commanding, despite being sarcastic about it.

It was handy that he kept reminding her — Reddington was no altruist. Whatever his reasons were for this bizarre game he had started, they were his own and they were selfish. If a greater good was served, it was mere coincidence.

_Remember that, _she told herself fiercely.

And when Reddington won the squabble — as he always did — he gave them their hint and put them on the right path. _General Ludd. _

More than just one man, but every monster had a face. Who was at the head of this snarling crowd? Reddington named him as Nathaniel Wolff, but where was he? His known face was nowhere near the current crime. It must be someone else. They got names — Roger Gard; Arthur Denning.

She worked the case, thinking it through, but she couldn't dedicate herself to it. Couldn't shake the worry nagging at the back of her mind. How long did a few tests take, anyway? Where was her father? All she got was his voicemail.

"Hey. I know you don't want to call me because you don't want to freak me out, but FYI, not calling me freaks me out, so call me. Uh, I–I just want to know about the tests. I love you."

When it came down to it, when she _had _to, she _could _think through the case. She saw the link, cleared the way. Not a different man at all, but the same man, with a new face. Just the sort of thing, coincidentally, that the Concierge of Crime would know _all _about.

And if he or his people would _answer the phone, _maybe she'd know all about it, too. Damn it, this had better not be some kind of payback or… Well, there was more than one way to track down a criminal. Aram had his location for her quickly enough.

Admittedly, she wasn't expecting a suburban counterfeiting operation, and might not have covered as well as she could have. She did wonder when she'd _stop _being shocked, and what would have happened to her by then. She supposed she'd better hope that the surprises kept coming.

She got another one when he hopped cheerfully onto the swingset in the yard.

"We searched the home address listed for both suspects and were able to pull some prints. They belong to Nathaniel Wolff."

He laughed. "I never tire of being correct."

His words were intolerably smug, but the smile on his face was so genuine and contagious that she had to bite back her own as she answered.

"Someone changed his face."

"I understand your father is not well."

This was not the right response; in fact, it was so unexpected it took her a beat to mentally catch up. "Excuse me?" was all she could come up with.

"The cancer. It's come back?"

"My father's fine, he's just…" The cancer. He'd mentioned the oncologist on the phone this morning. Surely he'd have said something to her, surely this wasn't…oh god, what _was _this? "Who the hell told you that?"

"You should be there," he said, and his concern seemed real. "With him."

She couldn't, she just _couldn't. _Even Reddington must understand how much this hurt, how afraid it made her, how frustrating it was.

"I'm not doing this. Playing this game, guessing what you know or how you know it." She tried so hard to make her voice firm, authoritative. _Professional distance, Liz. _

"Dr. Maltz."

Wait. "What?" She couldn't keep up. She rather thought he did it on purpose.

"Abraham Maltz. The best surgeon for this sort of business."

He started to swing, enthusiastically enough that she had to step back out of the way of his feet. _Swinging, _for the love of…

"Maltz," he barked.

And then, instead of Nebraska — where she agreed, she _should _be going — she found herself on the way to Miami.

* * *

The second they were in the air, she started pacing like a caged cat.

"Why do you do it?" she demanded. "Why do you keep pretending you know me? Know things about me? Are you trying to have some sort of _relationship?" _

He sighed. "We _do _have a relationship, Elizabeth. We're…partners, of a sort. Co-workers, if you will." He should have left it at that, but, "And I know you better than you think."

She snarled at that. "I know you want me to _think _you do. What I can't figure out is _why? _Is it some sort of power play? I can't possibly have anything you want. Maybe you just get off on it. On holding all the cards, even if they're fake."

She sat across from him with a cross _huff _of breath.

"Everything I tell you is real," he said, and wished she could know how much he meant it. How much more he wanted to say. "You just have to trust me."

"How can I?" she asked, a snap of words. "After everything that happened with Tom, how can you expect me to believe a single word that comes out of your mouth?"

"Just because his girlfriend got him out of trouble one time, doesn't mean the trouble isn't there," he said coolly.

Her face went pink. "He doesn't _have _a 'girlfriend'. That whole thing was just some…some _story _you made up to…to…" She trailed off, furious but with nothing to say.

"That's right. To do what? To what end," he snapped back, "would I invent such a ridiculous tale of false identities and assassinations and covert women?"

"To isolate me. So I'd have no choice but to trust you," she answered, but didn't sound as if she herself even really believed it.

"There are a number of simpler ways I could have gotten you to trust me," he said, gently now. "Most of which probably would have been much easier for you to accept. Maybe I chose this way because it's the truth."

She shook her head mutely, but her face was stubbornly closed. "No," she said, "it was just another one of your games. Just like this new one, asking about my father, like you know him, too. Like you care about me."

He softened, of course he did. "Lizzy, I _do _care about you," he tried. "You matter a great deal to me."

"Except that you barely know me," she pointed out. "Unless there's something you're not telling me."

He laughed; couldn't help it. "Oh, sweetheart, there are innumerable things I'm not telling you at any given time. But the things I do tell you are true."

"Do you know my father?" she demanded, quick and sharp.

He blinked, slowly, mostly just to annoy her. "I wonder what the weather will be like in South Beach," he said.

_"Ugh!" _A short shriek of frustration. "How can I trust you when you avoid all the questions that matter?"

"I've kept your secrets, Lizzy," he answered. "That should count for something."

"I don't have any secrets," she retorted.

He just stared at her. Aside from certain…peccadillos in her past, there were several recent incidents he could think of that would raise an eyebrow or two at the FBI.

She had the grace to look away, embarrassed. "It's as much in your own interest to keep _that _a secret as it is for my benefit. Do you think Cooper would keep your deal if he knew you'd been…messing around with me?"

He laughed again. "'Messing around?' This isn't high school, Elizabeth, and Cooper isn't the principal. I'm sure he'd have plenty to say to us both if he knew we'd…been together. But I think that out of the two of us, you care a lot more what the outcome would be."

Her hands clenched and her jawline tightened. "You just _love _holding all the cards, don't you?" she repeated. "And you still expect people to trust you?" She snorted and looked away.

And refused to speak to him again for the rest of the flight, looking out the window and fidgeting with her cell phone. Worried about Sam, he knew, and wished she would, she _could, _talk to him about it. He left her to her silent vigil and got a little work done, but the heavy atmosphere made even the relatively short flight fairly unpleasant.

A short drive to the medical centre, and then it was time to remind her that he was here as a favour, and _not _as part of his "deal."

"Before we do this, let me be clear — I have business that requires further travel today, so this needs to happen quickly; you need to follow my lead. Dr. Maltz is not on the blacklist. He's an asset I need to protect."

"You want me to protect some plastic surgeon who might be linked to a terrorist organization?"

Her face said it all, but he _was _in a hurry. "Yes," he said shortly, and pushed open the door. "Abraham!"

"Raymond, what brings you in?" Maltz was mid-pedicure, but was good enough at what he did not to betray any particular surprise.

With the manicurist gone, they got down to business quickly — Maltz was reluctant, of course, but Red was talking him around when Elizabeth just butted in with the _truth, _of all ridiculous things. And for _shame, _it _worked. _Okay, good, he could work with this. He'd even enjoy it.

"Abraham! I refer important clients to you!" He let his voice get gradually higher, tenser, _snippier. _"People who are _vital _to my business, people whose _livelihood _depends on your confidentiality, and you roll over like a cockapoo wanting his belly scratched?"

To her credit, Lizzy caught on mid-rant, and joined right in, with a bit of Jersey attitude. "You said this guy was solid!" _Delightful. _He loved the seamless way they worked together when she let herself go.

"What? Wait a minute…"

Poor Abraham didn't have a chance, and Red just talked right over him. "Some woman who claims to be an FBI agent makes a few ham-fisted threats, and you hand over one of your own clients? That's dirty pool. God forbid this little incident ever gets back to poor Nathaniel Wolff."

A little more back and forth, and _gosh, _he did love a good hissy fit. Just a wonderful release of tension, better than a massage any day. Well…almost. Lizzy played along beautifully, all astonished disgust, and they stormed out together in an exit worthy of Elizabeth Taylor herself.

He even threw a clue in there for her, but he was pretty sure she'd missed it. Well, he _had _put on a fine performance, if he did say so himself. And it had put some sparkle back in Lizzy's eyes, so all around it had been worth it. He'd make it up with Abraham another time.

She was quiet on the way back, and he let her alone. Things would get harder again soon enough. And he was running late.

They saw Elizabeth off the plane and on her way, and left again. It was a good thing, he thought, stretching out his legs comfortably, that he had his own jet.

He hated hospitals, but it was such a delight to see Sam again, even under these circumstances. He let himself spend a little time reminiscing; sharing stories and laughing with an old friend. A real friend. Such opportunities didn't come his way all that often, these days.

But the truth was undeniable. He took Sam's hand, sorrow heavy in his heart.

"You look like hell." The other man just smiled, and sighed a little.

"I finally got a chance to see her, Sam."

Images of her face filled his mind — set in anger when she stabbed him in the neck; intent and thoughtful as she worked her way through a problem; sublime and beautiful as she took her pleasure from him; drawn and exhausted as she called him _monster. _

_Such a woman, _he thought, as Sam raised a querying eyebrow. He smiled broadly.

"There's a…fire inside she got from you. She's volatile…unpredictable…" So many memories of her, already locked in his mind. "She's soft, then hard, then…" he laughed, remembering, remembering. "Soft again. Stronger than she knows.

"You gave her an incredible gift, Sam. Taking her in and loving her as your own."

Sam didn't answer, and Red worried briefly that he'd given too much away, that his voice or his words had betrayed him. But it was something else, something harder. Sam was dying, and there was no escaping from that truth. His heart cracked in his chest with the hard despair of it, then his entire system froze in horror.

"I need to tell Lizzy."

"No." Flat denial; it was impossible.

"I know what we agreed, but before I go, I have to tell her." Sam's voice was weak, but insistent.

"I can't let you do that," Red said, heart breaking all over again.

Sam's face showed he understood the unspoken threat, and Red almost took it back. _Almost. _This would be one of the most difficult things he had ever done, to protect the numerous secrets of his life; to protect himself.

To protect her.

To protect her, he would wear the mantle of the monster again. He hoped that someone, somewhere, someday, would forgive him.

"I need…I need to say goodbye," Sam said, pleading a little, coughing harshly. "Just let me talk to her one more time. I won't…I won't say anything."

It was only right. Red handed him the cell, and the warning was clear in his face. Sam nodded; he understood this, as well. They had a short conversation — he couldn't decipher what Lizzy was saying, but the resigned sadness in Sam's voice made him ache for what he had to do.

"I love you, too, Butterball," Sam said, and hung up, glanced at Red. "Thank you."

_Thank you, _Red thought, the guilt piercing him and twisting like the sharpest knife. Thanking him for _allowing _a meagre phone call before…before… He braced himself with one hand beside the other man's head, leaning over him.

"You will always be her father, Sam," he said heavily. "I can only hope to…love her…protect her…as you have."

Sam looked afraid, afraid, but he nodded slightly, and Red inclined his head in return. Then, in swift, sure movements, the pillow was out and over Sam's face, and Red wrapped his arms around them both. Sam struggled weakly — had to, Red supposed, survival instinct too strong in all of us — but he might as well have not bothered. Red shut his eyes tightly, so he couldn't see the terrible deed he did; so the tears wouldn't escape.

It didn't take long.

He tucked the pillow back behind Sam's head gently, smoothed back his hair. He kissed Sam's forehead; rested against him briefly, wishing that things could have been different. That he could have been a different man. He let the tragedy fill him for one long moment; then left the room behind.

He phoned Lizzy, just to hear her voice. He knew she wouldn't talk to him, wouldn't take help, and he was right, but… It gave him some comfort, to hear her, vibrant and alive. To remind him why he acted as he did.

He only did what he had to do, always. What no one else could.

And how interesting — there was Tom Keen, sitting at a table looking pensive and drinking coffee. Red wondered if he cared about the loss of his father-in-law at all, or if he was thinking about something else. The hypocrisy of it all was too much, in that moment, and without really thinking, he was sitting down beside the younger man.

They had a strange, veiled conversation in which no one gave away anything at all. As if they really were perfect strangers. But Red delivered his warning, one which he had been itching to issue for weeks now.

Lizzy wasn't alone, wasn't unprotected and vulnerable. And Tom Keen would do well to remember it.

That done, everything done now and taken care of, he had to get back to business. He felt about a thousand years old — his whole body ached and his heart was tired. Sadness dragged at him like the outgoing tide, threatening to pull him under.

He'd fight it, for now. So he could be there, when she needed him.

* * *

They said that grief came like a wave, a gradual sweeping under. To Liz, it felt like a brick wall, plowing into her with immediate brutality. Her body betrayed her, knees folding and stomach rebelling, so she had to lean against the car just to stay on her feet. The cool metal felt good on her forehead as she attempted to process what she was hearing.

_Daddy. _

She'd never see him again; never hear his rough laugh or feel his steady hand. He'd never ruffle her hair or call her _Butterball. _No more movie nights, watching the same old _noir _classics again and again. No more card games, where he always cheated just to see if she'd catch him at it. No more practical advice, no more bad jokes, no more… No more.

No more _Sam, _and she hadn't even been able to say goodbye. At least one of the last things she'd said to him was that she loved him.

Her heart _hurt; _she couldn't breathe right. The stone that had taken residence in her chest was so heavy, she didn't know how on earth she would carry it. She'd always felt somewhat rootless, roaming alone in a confusing world, but now…now she was utterly adrift. It made her panic — _what would she do? _

She clung to the phone as an anchor, her eyes dry and burning, her throat aching. Tom spoke to her gently, and she focused on his voice rather than his words. _Thank god, _he was there, comforting her, guiding her. Thank goodness that part of her life was stable and real.

And he _was _there, making sure that she had a flight as soon as was possible, that someone would take her to the airport. _You shouldn't drive, _he said, and he was clearly right, because she could still barely stand. Ressler took her — home first to pick up her things, then to Dulles — shrugging off her thanks, and she'd owe him for it, later. When she got to Nebraska, Tom was waiting for her, warm arms encircling her, and keeping her upright.

He'd been helping Aunt June with the funeral arrangements — it was only a day away. Everything was taken care of so quickly and efficiently, all she really had to do was sit in the living room of her childhood home and wonder what the hell had happened. The whole house still smelt of Sam's aftershave, and her heart broke again and again and again.

How could one day have changed her entire life so thoroughly? So irrevocably?

The day of the funeral was bright and warm and felt all wrong. It should be raining, teeming, tearing the world apart. The reverend's words flowed over her, a meaningless hum that she couldn't comprehend.

A quiet tear; another; another.

Nothing seemed quite real — how could this be real? When she stood and placed her small bouquet on the coffin — _her father's coffin _— she shattered, the tears came in full.

And Tom was still there, to hold her tight and shelter her; to soak up her sorrow and whisper that it would be okay, eventually. One day. That they would weather this storm together. That he loved her.

There was family, too — Aunt June and her children and grandchildren, and there was further solace in that. In the continuation of life, despite the endings.

There were more hard things — packing up her old room, Sam's things, all the bits and pieces of her life. Aunt June was going to sell the house, and that made sense. It did. It was another ending, though, another kind of death, to put their whole life into a few cardboard boxes and shut it all away. She packed in a vague daze, not paying attention to much. She'd sort through it all later, when it wasn't so fresh. When the stone in her chest had finally broken and washed away.

It wasn't until they were headed home that she thought of Reddington, and the bits of the case that hadn't sat quite right. She spent the flight puzzling it out — it was better to have something else to think about. When she understood it all, she decided to seek him out, confront him with the truth. (Maybe it was just an excuse.)

Would he deny it? Could he, _if _he always told her the truth? It would be an interesting test.

He was in the suburbs again — playing counterfeiter, making money. And wasn't that just _so _neat and tidy?

He actually looked a little surprised to see her.

"I should've known when you agreed to help us catch Wolff that you would take something for yourself. We didn't think he could access the safe on the truck, but he did. And he swapped the original drive for a counterfeit, and when we arrested him, he didn't have it." They were all just facts, and she stated them like they were. She didn't have it in her to get upset or yell or question.

Not today.

He looked for a second like he might answer her, but of course, _of course, _he didn't. He sidestepped right back into her personal life, like he had a right, like he _belonged _there.

Like he cared.

Maybe, just maybe, he did.

"I'm sorry about your father." He sounded like he meant it. She shook her head — that wasn't what she'd come for. Was it?

"How was the funeral?" She lowered her eyes, biting her lip to keep the tears back. She wouldn't cry, not anymore. She was so tired.

"This is going to be a difficult time. The best way to keep the memory of your father alive is to talk about him." She finally met his gaze and he smiled at her, friendly, a little sad.

"Tell me some stories."

Somehow, it was exactly the right thing to say, and somehow, he was exactly the right person. She ended up sitting on a swing beside him, pushing her feet so she swayed a little, talking and talking and talking.

Sam, patiently teaching her to ride a bike, no matter how many times she fell. Sam, learning how to braid hair from Aunt June, so she would have perfect pigtails on picture day. Sam, burning innumerable dinners until they both decided to just survive on takeout and Aunt June's casseroles.

Teaching her — it seemed as if he was always teaching her something, from multiplication tables, to how to memorize facts and faces, to how to stand up for herself. What to say to a bully — and how to punch, just in case. (How to pick a lock and lift a wallet, but she kept those to herself.)

Sam, gruffly interrogating the first boy she'd brought home. Sam, trying to give her "the talk", beet red in the face and stumbling over it. Sam, helping her pack for college, and pretending not to cry as he waved her off at the airport. Sam, giving her away at her wedding, radiant with pride.

Tears ran down her face silently now, as she talked and Red listened. Faster and harder, as she kept on, as she shared her life with him.

"I didn't visit enough, the past few years," she wept, finally. "I was so busy with the Mobile Psych unit, and then going to Quantico, and there was Tom, and then we were talking about a baby, and I just…I just…"

"Oh Lizzy," Red said, and his voice was soft and tender, like he cared as deeply as she did. "The man you've described to me understood that. Children grow, they move away, build lives. It's what parents want for them.

"And Sam, the father you remember, he would have been so proud, so proud of you, Elizabeth."

He used the rope of the swing to pull her close and wrapped his arms around her, pressed a gentle kiss to her forehead.

It was too much, too much, and she buried her face in his broad shoulder and sobbed. She thought he rested his cheek on the top of her head; he rubbed her back and murmured quiet nothing words meant to soothe.

But he didn't tell her not to cry; didn't tell her everything would be okay. In fact, he'd started the conversation recognizing how hard a loss this was. _He understood, _she thought, and was glad suddenly, immensely glad to have him there.

To have someone just hold her, and let her bleed out her sorrow; to share it with her, take a part of the burden just by understanding it.

"I–I'm all alone," she managed at last. "Tom is all I have left." _Please, _she couldn't say out loud. _Please, don't take him from me, too. _

"I know it feels that way," he answered, kissing her again, soft against her hair. "But you are _not _alone. There's Sam's family — they're your family, too. You have friends in your life.

"And…you have me, Lizzy. For whatever it's worth, I'm here."

"It…it's worth a lot," she admitted, sitting back. "Thank you, for listening. For just…being here." She wiped at her eyes, a little embarrassed now, and he offered her his pristine handkerchief.

"Thank you," he said seriously. "For sharing your father with me, Elizabeth."

She looked so forlorn, sitting on her swing, that he couldn't quite stand it. He tugged her rope again, and kissed her, just once, soft and sweet, on the mouth. Her eyes flashed as she looked at him, and he offered a wry smile.

"Friends," he said. "I care about you, Lizzy, and I'll be here for you, if you'll let me."

She opened her mouth and then just sighed, long and windy and sad. "Friends, then," she replied.

And they sat together a while longer, swinging quietly in the dusk.


End file.
